


From the Ashes, We Can Build Another Day

by alyxpoe



Series: Snippets of Inspiration for Fanfic [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Riechenbach, already established relationship, men having sex, men kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson stands in front the burnt-out husk of the building that he has been calling home for more than ten years with his soot-darkened head in his hands. It has just begun to rain, the drops hissing as they pelt against the charred remains of what two hours ago had been the three individual flats of 221 Baker Street, London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Our Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> I've invented my own time line here, folks, I'm sorry. I am assuming that there were three years prior to Riechenbach, with Sherlock being gone for a year; this story begins six years after he returns. It's been a seriously hectic week and I needed some down time with the Baker Street Boys. This story has not much point other than it makes me happy.

 

**I've been thinking about our fortune**   
**And I've decided that we're really not to blame**   
**For the love that's deep inside us now**   
**Is still the same**   
  
**And the sounds we make together**   
**Is the music to the story in your eyes**   
**It's been shining down upon me now**   
**I realize**   
  
**Listen to the tide slowly turning**   
**Wash all our heartaches away**   
**We're part of the fire that is burning**   
**And from the ashes we can build another day**

**_The Story in Your Eyes_ **

**_© The Moody Blues_ **

* * *

**J** ohn Watson, retired M.D. and partner in many ways to the world's only consulting detective, stands in front the burnt-out husk of the building that he has been calling home for more than ten years with his soot-darkened head in his hands. It has just begun to rain, the drops hissing as they pelt against the charred remains of what two hours ago had been the three individual flats of 221 Baker Street, London. The acrid smell of smoke assaults his nostrils and his lungs burn as he takes in deep, gasping breaths in a pathetic attempt to steady himself. Every muscle in his body still trembles from the shock of waking up from the inevitable crash after solving a case to the loud, banshee wail of a smoke alarm, or rather three of them. Ironically, the rain is now coming down in sheets; John wonders if the house would have been completely destroyed had it started earlier. The cold drops on his exhausted body finally force John to look up and accept the reality of his situation. His home is gone, it is appropriate that the sun is going down, turning the raindrops into tiny prisms that remind him of dancing flames.

The ladders and hoses have been packed back onto the trucks. The firemen and women have done all that they could possibly do to fight the blaze. By the time they arrived, the place was a virtual ring of fire; apparently the old place was a tinder box in the waiting. The fire chief had shaken his hand and told him that there would be a full investigation; preliminary study made him think that the fire began in three different places in the building, there would be more information in a few days. John remembers just nodding to him as he watched two uniformed policemen cordon off the area with yellow tape. Something so familiar had never seemed so personal to John until that moment.

John comes back to the present with the dark and heavy sound of rolling thunder. He turns his head to the right and to the left, searching. He is still alone with his thoughts. He is glad that Mrs. Hudson passed on two years ago; it would have broken the woman’s heart to see the home she loved  demolished.

Though he has never been an overly materialistic man, John will grieve for the little things: the tawny human skull on the mantle watched over by an ebony bison skull wearing headphones; the dent in the back of the door that was made by John’s fist the night that his partner reappeared after being “dead” for a year, the squeaky step on the short staircase leading up to the bedroom on the second floor that was actually cracked when the bodies of two grown men fell on it whilst locked together in a fiery, passionate embrace that same night; the horrid wallpaper that had seemed so familiar the first time he ever set eyes on it…just, many things. He shrugs a little to himself as his breathing begins to even out. The old sand-colored T-shirt that he grabbed from the drawer as he ran for the exit behind Sherlock when they realized this was not a simple kitchen fire is soaked clean through as well as streaked with black soot. John’s normally white-blond hair is streaked charcoal gray and black from the rain and ash. In short, he is sure that he is a mess. He can feel his emotions spirally downward, pulling him along for the ride he doesn't have the energy to fight at this moment.

The wind carries with it the feeling of a hand on his shoulder and he leans back against the solid form of the person who is so much more than a significant other to him; grounding him, fully stopping the downward spiral. He takes another deep breath and rolls his shoulders, feeling the heat from the other man against his back; it is almost tangible and seeps into John’s muscles and bones through the saturated cotton. The physical damage is done; all they can do now is soldier on. One lean, tightly muscled arm drops to his waist and a strong, long-fingered hand draws him closer; he can feel a wisp of air across his scalp through the short, wet hairs on the top of his head when Sherlock speaks. John would recognize that voice anywhere, even over the raging storm; it will echo across the vast plateaus within his brain for the rest of time. In his mind, he can even see Sherlock’s beautiful lips move and hear the melted-chocolate baritone over the loudest crash of thunder; it is almost heart-wrenching the way the natural sounds complement one another. Lightning illuminates the scene, throwing the entire twisted hulk of what remains of their home into vivid relief. As all scenes of destruction are at that same time eerily disturbing and eerily beautiful, John cannot help but stare at the jumbled mess of blackened metal and fire licked wood that now sits mutely in front of them. It is a completely different scene that the one of raging flames and shouting firefighters backed by the spinning scarlet of lights and the crashes of the skeleton of the old building smacking against the ground with finality. 

“John.” John turns on the spot while Sherlock’s strong, broad, warm hand remains possessively on his waist; an anchor against the quickly capsizing ship that is his mind right now. He attempts to wipe away some of the water running down his forehead and tells himself that it is all _just_ rain then tilts his head upward to meet Sherlock’s steely green gaze. Those eyes bore into John as if dissecting him, pulling apart each and every individual thread of what makes him who he is; as well as seeking reassurance.

John's soul is always touched by the dichotomy. Reading his partner loud and clear, Sherlock tightens his hand against John’s hip then leans down to give him a soft kiss that says they are safe, possessions are only _things_ and it is much more important that they are together and they have been through worse, much worse. Wordlessly, John agrees; they are both whole and physically unhurt. For now, it must be enough. His left hand seems to reach up of its own accord, pulling against the tabs of the amethyst dress shirt Sherlock wrestled from his closet while the sound of the smoke alarm played its riotous melody like some belting background music in an overdone action flick. John's soot-stained fingers leave wet smudges along the edges of Sherlock’s collar; not that it matters anyway with the pounding rain. His favorite shirt is probably going to be ruined after this. The un-tucked tails of it flutter in the wind like silk flags as the storm kicks up its energy around them.

They are an island in the eye of the storm.

John closes his eyes. For an instant, Sherlock admires the way the raindrops collect against the golden colored hairs of his eyelashes. Water runs down Sherlock’s pale temples and he shifts on his feet when the object curled beneath long pale fingers in the hand not currently on John’s hip makes a weak sound. John’s eyes fly open as he sees a minute, bedraggled and utterly soaking wet orange furry lump lying against Sherlock’s wide palm. His heart does a funny little flip and he reaches out to the slight animal, tucking it beneath his shirt and against his heart without thinking. Sherlock rests an arm over John’s shoulders and they slowly walk away from the ruin, their heads bent in an effort to keep the rain out of their eyes. Neither man feels the need to speak as there really is nothing they can say to change any part of the situation. Though they both feel the loss strongly, just being in each other’s presence is a balm to these new wounds. Their opposite polarities tend to pull them _together_ , rather than push them apart; rather than destructive, this force is productive, creative, and touches everyone around them: those on the side of the angels as well as those who are not. 

It is only a few moments, though in reality it feels like hours, before a car pulls beside them, the rain making white steam rise from the bonnet. John considers asking Sherlock to just ignore it but the slightest stirring of the tiny creature he is cradling against his heart makes him hold his tongue. When the car stops, Sherlock opens the door and stands back to allow John to climb across the rear-facing bench seat first. After John is settled, Sherlock folds his long body and wiggles in beside him; he leaves a matching damp trail as his soaked denim-clad legs squelch across the black leather seat, following in John’s wake. John breathes in deeply, inhaling the musky scent of two soaked-to-the bone men in a small, enclosed space. The windows of the sedan are fogging up. 

 Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, sits across from them with a pair of fluffy white towels in his lap. It is quite an incongruous sight to see someone wearing a well-pressed light grey power suit to have such domestic items. He hands one to each of them without saying a word, holding them out at the same time; the stark whiteness of the fluffy material showcasing his smooth scarlet tie like the inside of a cordial cherry. Sherlock dries his face then runs the towel over his hair, which does not really help the uncontrolled raven and just-starting to-silver curls that have decided today is the day to become anarchists. They stand up like a dark halo about his head; one even dares to fall over his left eye. He pushes it away with one hand only for it to fall right back in place. Mycroft studies them as if they are fish in an aquarium whose primary purpose is for his own entertainment. Sherlock finally gives it up and turns to his brother when Mycroft makes a strange sound. 

The strangled huffing noise of surprise that Mycroft attempts to cover up with a wimpy dry cough comes when John pulls the miserable looking kitten out from underneath his shirt. He wraps it up in the towel and meets Mycroft’s dark blue eyes with his own crystal cerulean ones: an unspoken “I dare you to say _anything_ ” hanging in the air between them like the thick smoke that poured from the burning frame of Baker Street. Mycroft just stiffens his upper lip, gives former Captain John Watson, protector of all things needy a nod and pulls his mobile out of his pocket with slender fingers in order to send off a text message to a member of his vast league of assistants that his brother rather drily refers to as his “minions.”

_Please pick up items that would meet the appropriate needs of a_

He pauses and lets his gaze wonder over the sad little lump of fur. John eyes him closely as Mycroft seems to make up his mind about something and returns to his text message, his fingers flying over the keyboard as to not even touch.

_…kitten that is approximately three weeks old, improperly weaned. Send to my flat. MH_

He presses the “send” button. When he looks up again from the screen, his brother is staring right through him. Mycroft allows his eyelids to fall just a little, shaking his head slightly as he looks towards the floorboards. Sherlock’s nostrils flare and he turns his head a bit to the left, carefully observing his brother even through narrowed eyes. Mycroft knows he is suspicions of his actions so he holds out the phone for Sherlock to re-read the text message. Most surprisingly, Sherlock gives a little grunt of approval and hands the phone back, shifting his eyes towards his partner. Mycroft accepts the gratitude just as silently, his eyes moving from Sherlock to John and back. They both know that what makes John happy satisfies Sherlock on a deep level, and with good reason. 

John clears his throat. “When you two are done with your mind reading and posturing like territorial wolves, would one of you tell me where we are going?” He is rubbing the kitten gently with the towel that by no means can any longer be called "white". The sounds of its purring are larger than its entire body, filling up the tight space with the sounds of life. John never takes his eyes from his ministrations to the tiny body as he speaks; he doesn't need to look at the Holmes brothers to know clearly what is happening around him. John gently flips the little orange fuzz ball onto its back and is carefully rubbing its round belly, mud, shed hairs and even dried blood come away from coppery fur that is starting to show through the mess.

A strong burst of pride in his partner rushes through him with a whiskey-like warmth at the sight of John’s gentle but knowing handling of the animal. It’s inexplicable, but then it always has been that way between them; perhaps it reminds him of when John treats Sherlock’s injuries and sicknesses. To bring his attention back to the present, he wipes one hand on his thigh, leaving dark traces of ash against the indigo denim. He then runs the now-sopping towel on his lap down both arms and reaches out to return it to his brother without thinking. When the thing remains in his hand, Sherlock turns towards Mycroft, the dirty towel barely defying gravity between them. The corners of Mycroft's mouth inch downward as Sherlock’s shift upwards. It's a power play and they are both fully aware of it. Mycroft’s eyes open in mock horror that his little brother would _dare_ hand him something so filthy as _that_ , so in turn Sherlock just drops the towel in the floor of the immaculate sedan. Something that sounds like a giggle escapes his throat and John jumps, causing the kitten to mew loudly in protest as she flips over onto her belly in his hands.

That’s all it takes before the two of them lock eyes and break down in laughter more benefitting a comedy club—or a particularly grisly crime scene to people who really _know_ these two. Mycroft frowns but has his wits about him enough to know that he should just leave them well enough alone, after all they have just lost their home and all of their possessions, save for the clothing on their backs, and apparently, a kitten. John has pulled the tiny feline closer to his chest, protecting her from falling even as he laughs with his partner like a lunatic. 

After a few moments, the two men manage to stifle themselves enough that Mycroft tells them they will be staying in his virtually-unused flat across the city. John can see that Sherlock doesn’t really mind, after all the address is much closer to New Scotland Yard than Baker Street. It won’t be home, and it is probably going to be some time before they will be able to reestablish themselves a base of operations. John sits back against the seat holding the kitten in his hands and closes his eyes; Sherlock scoots over closer to him and touches her tiny head with one finger. The kitten's eyes close and Mycroft can see its thin body vibrate with the force of its purrs. For a second he considers that Sherlock’s expression is exactly the same and he wonders if his brother is mentally purring as well. Both human and feline bask in the warmth that is John Watson.

Mycroft tears himself out of his thoughts by whipping out his phone, really doing nothing but trying not to stare at his little brother and John. He doesn’t want to be jealous of them, but sometimes that green-eyed monster appears when he least expects it. He recognizes the impulse as childish and unnecessary, after all, he chooses to be alone; Sherlock’s choices remain uniquely his own. Mycroft must concede that Sherlock has done well; he only hopes one day to find anything that equals what he sees on their faces when they look at each other, even in a time such as this. The ride to the flat passes by without another word from any of them; the trio remain in stasis with their own thoughts as night catches up with their city.


	2. The Sounds We Make Together

The flames surround them: they are alive-clawing at them both with talons made of burning steel; cutting and burning them alive. Blood drips in thick rivers down severed arteries and veins, igniting when it comes into the least contact with the flames. John is reaching across a black chasm that has no end and no beginning, his fingers unable to reach Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hair is a burning nest of raging orange, searing red, and bright, bright yellow, his crimson lips are open in an inaudible scream, there are tears, scarlet tears falling against the marred porcelain white of his skin. Slashes cross his cheeks pour red liquid so dark it is black in the light of the fiery prison that encircles them. John is reaching, forever reaching and he pushes himself farther but there is no stopping when the ground under their bare feet opens up and Sherlock is falling, tumbling ass over head, deeper and deeper until John loses sight of him and the flames reach out to grab at his legs and pull him backward into their beautiful and murderous embrace and he is screaming and screaming into the void of nothing but heat and light…

WHAM!

John hits the floor on his side, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall. He rolls to his side and scrambles across the wooden floor of the bedroom, heart pounding and sweat dripping into his eyes, kicking at the tangled sheet around his legs that is attached to the side of the unfamiliar Queen-sized bed and threatens to hold him fast. It is all too much; there is a ripping sound as John rolls to a sitting position; the old T-shirt finally giving up the ghost. In his mind the sounds of automatic rifle fire mix with the sensory overload of wooden beams snapping, crashing to the ground, glass exploding, people bleeding and the sound of himself sobbing; he is dragged backward in time watching the person who embodies his heart, his reason taking a dive from the roof of a hospital and then he is trying to run to help him but he can’t get there. As he struggles, his shirt catches on one hand and tears across his midsection. With sweat rolling off of his forehead and tattered rags hanging off of his trembling frame, the poor man actually looks like he's in the middle of a war zone. 

John’s heart is racing, depriving him of much-needed nitrogen and oxygen and now he is falling... Suddenly there is an iron grip on his shoulders and he tries to kick free but the hands are unrelenting, pinning him into place on the floor. This is it, the way it always ends; it’s finally over. John’s eyes slip closed as Sherlock drops to his knees next to him in the dark and drags the taunt, quivering body of his lover against his naked chest. Now that the other man has stopped flailing about and kicking, he can reach around John’s quaking frame and he spread his hands across John’s chest and stomach, quietly counting the other man’s respirations and heartbeats as both slow to a more normal rhythm. After a time, he gently removes what is left of John's old shirt and drops in onto the floor next to them. The cotton of John’s boxers is a cool sensation against Sherlock’s naked groin.

The darkness of the room is the loving arms of a goddess as it envelopes them, the only sounds now are the drowsy _whisks_ of the ceiling fan and the rain pounding against the roof. It is quiet in the aftermath of John's personal circles of hell. Sherlock doesn’t need to see into John’s mind to know exactly what is happening to the other man. He doesn’t need to see the horrifying memories, some of which he put there. Six years is not so long a time that the images cannot still remain along with their full complement of sensations: the pain of being unable to touch, to help; the sounds of a strong man showing his only weakness; psychic pain of the seeker needing answers to questions he has always feared to ask. Sherlock knows well the feeling of a mind tearing itself apart at the seams; he has been on the other side of that curtain one too many times, enough to understand the pain his lover is in.

Sherlock gently tucks his lightly stubbled chin against John’s shoulder, the one with the nasty, scrambled scar from the bullet that contained the intent but was missing the precision to take his life; the ridge of warm skin that he can feel beneath his jaw is like a “play” button for Sherlock’s memories. Silently, Sherlock weeps for the pain that John has been put through both at Sherlock’s own hand and for things that Sherlock could not control, whether in the past or the present. His tears roll down smooth cheeks and into midnight stubble to drop against John’s bare skin, mixing with John’s sweat to slowly evaporate into the air as John begins to come back to the present. _Chemistry_ , _the blending of molecules_ ,is Sherlock’s unbidden thought, even through the smoky haze of the night-awakened trauma.

“John.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything more. After all this time he has learned that, as much as he loves them, sometimes words are just not enough. He holds John close, fighting the imagery that rides on the coattails of his dark desire to be able to crack open his ribcage and tuck John beneath the bones to protect him from anything that would ever hurt him again. John is now stirring in his arms, moving slowly as if just awakening to face his lover. He raises his hand to Sherlock’s face, one finger reaching out to gather a tear which he then places on the end of his tongue. _Chemistry._

Sherlock’s heart seems to fill up his chest as John’s lips are on his and together they are falling into a fresh melody, composing new lines to a much older composition, overwriting the discord and unbalanced strains from earlier. They will not complete the melody this night, however, instead they reach out for the reassurance that the other is still there. The floor is hard, unforgiving beneath them as a mind locked in a cage of its own making, and soon they find themselves back on the firm mattress with its cool silk sheets. In the scheme of it all, none of the luxuries matter to them, however; soon Somnus returns as one man lies with his head against the other man’s chest, listening to the heartbeat that completes his own. The small hours of the night pass by in comfort and peace as the storm boils itself out across the city.

A new morning winks against the windows, rain-washed and devoid of ashes and soot. The newly-minted bullion rays of the sun filter through the pristine glass and slowly creep across two relaxed faces, all the lines of yesterday smoothed with midnight blue and silver colored promises of togetherness and rest; two pairs of eyes beginning to open to the fresh possibilities of another day. Yesterday’s worries have been laid open and dissected in the night; today is for moving forward. There are still cases to break and criminals to apprehend; or not. It is their choice. There can be responsibilities or they can spend the day together, wrapped up in their own cocoon, hidden away from prying eyes and questioning journalists; as well as nosy siblings.

Sherlock arches his back off of the bed, a melanistic long-limbed, limber cheetah as he stretches and yawns, his jostling causing John to stir beside him as Sherlock untangles their legs. The top sheet has been pushed to who knows where and the duvet rolls away from John as Sherlock pulls it off of himself. John gives a little warning growl that means he is absolutely not ready to face the day at the same time Sherlock practically bounds out of the bed on his way to the toilet and shower. John opens one eye and admires the sauntering hips and pale bare ass of his lover as Sherlock prances past him. He reaches out a hand, thoroughly expecting the loud sound of a smack when his palm hits that posh flesh but is disappointed when Sherlock scrambles just out of reach with a smarmy little sound of his own.

That little retort is enough to push John into action. He swings his legs to the floor and sits up, rubbing his eyes with his hands. He scratches lazily at the light dusting of wheaten hair that grows across his still-muscular chest. Come hell or high water, they will not discuss last night, though both men will remember it vividly. They have no need to strip the scabs off of those particular cuts in the bright light of day where they may be ugly and red. The night tempers the pain, makes it bearable for both of them. Uncovering those wounds in the daylight would leave them open to infection.

John stands and pulls off his boxers, dropping them into the wicker hamper in the bathroom as he moves further into the bathroom. He relieves himself and flushes the toilet, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. To John’s slight disappointment, Sherlock doesn’t make any noise other than a sharp hiss as he sucks in a breath when the water gets colder for a second. In retaliation, Sherlock flings opens the opaque cream curtain and grabs John with both hands, somehow managing to yank the other man into the shower with him and _not_ lose his balance at the same time. Even in his amusement, John can’t help but be impressed with the feline-like reflexes of his favorite person in the whole-wide world.

Now John is howling like a madman, his eyes screwed shut as he laughs under the spray of the water that is already warming back up. When he opens his eyes, he is pinned to the cream and mint hued tiles by the severe scrutiny of a glaring consulting detective. He tries to quash the giggles that are being ripped out of his chest like air bubbles after drinking soda too fast as he attempts to glare back at his lover whose hair actually falls into his eyes when it is full of suds; it reminds John strongly of a powered sugar covered-chocolate doughnut. With a loud snort, he grasps Sherlock’s shoulders and rubs their noses together a little roughly, causing some of Sherlock’s shampoo to run into his eyes. Of course, the joke is on him now as he turns and looks up, letting the water rinse away the stinging concoction. Sherlock doesn’t exactly laugh, but he does chuckle and presses himself against his lover’s naked behind and rolls his hips. John can feel Sherlock’s chuckle vibrate in the most intimate of places, causing John's mind to blank out for a second.

John wonders how long the water will stay warm. He turns back around and wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s erection, his own slowly taking interest in things. Sherlock’s eyes slip closed and he rests his forehead against John’s shoulder, his own hand wandering towards John’s groin where he teases just above his lover's now fully interested arousal with the skimming touches of his violinist’s fingers. His tongue makes tiny little laps against any skin he can reach. Goose bumps rush down John’s spine and then he practically goes boneless against Sherlock; it is only pure physics that holds both men upright on the slippery floor of the modern style bathtub. A small sound that John refuses to consider a _whimper_ forces its way between his teeth and he rolls his head against Sherlock’s temple while he makes a short, shallow, wanton thrust with his pelvis. Sherlock finally stops teasing and takes John’s length in his hand, stroking him with a firm touch; nipping gently against John’s shoulder at the same time. They pull each other to orgasm under the water pulsing from the shower head, each man growling the other’s name as they climax.

It is all over in a heated rush, both men standing calm and satiated in the bedroom when Sherlock’s phone vibrates against the nightstand where he dropped it last night. Sherlock crosses the room, making no attempt to stop the mint green towel slung loosely around his hips from falling to the floor. On the other side of the bed he glares down at the device as if it insulted _his_ John, at the same time petulant huffing sound escapes his lips to clue John in clearly to whom the text is from.

“Mycroft checking that we haven’t destroyed his flat, yeah?”John asks as he zips his jeans. The sound of the metal teeth clicking together seems loud in this room that is not their own.

“Of course.”Sherlock answers him with an eye roll, adding a lip pop to the end of each word. The _obvious_ is inherent in his short statement, though it is left dangling to be pulled into the air by the whirling ceiling fan and broken into pieces like smoke from a burning building in a gust of wind. John just laughs and leaves Sherlock in the bedroom while he goes alone to scout out what kind of food is in the kitchen.

 _Naturally_ , John thinks to himself as he opens the polished stainless steel and black refrigerator. It would be completely natural that Mycroft would keep a fully-stocked kitchen in a flat he uses less than three times a year, according to him. John shakes his head at that, wondering if perhaps someone else lives here part of the time. It’s certainly big enough, with the three bedrooms, sitting room, this huge kitchen, and a den.

John looks about the kitchen but it is the sitting room that catches his eye. Besides the massive plasma-screen television in the corner, there are three floor-to-ceiling windows covered by heavy cream-colored drapes that hang from massive gold rods. He remembers allowing Mycroft to take the little orange kitten from him, asking John’s permission to take her to a vet. He has promised to bring her home, if she is healthy enough, later on in the day. John knows he has already gotten attached to the tiny thing and secretly hopes she will be okay. Enough canned and dry kitten food and milk stacked on one of the kitchen counters to feed three cats has been brought in by Mycroft's mysterious assistants at some point since their arrival; he wants to take it as a good sign.

As soon as he pushes back the drapes, memories of the ride in the elevator last night come to the surface and leave him wondering just what floor they are going to be on. Turns out to be the sweet motherfucking penthouse. He pushes on the window in the center; it is actually a door that swings out onto a fairly wide balcony, wide enough for a café table and a pair of matching chairs. In the center of the yellow metal table sits a black vase filled with white carnations and deep green ivy. The ivy cascades over the lip of the vase, not quite touching the artistically tiled table top. John turns his gaze out towards the city as it seems to open up under his feet. He recognizes buildings, streets…everything. Had he known this flat was right at the heart of the city, he would have begged to step out here last night, even in the rain. The air smells clean, the scent of autumn drifting on the air after a night of storms. His heart is glad when there is no smell of smoke in the vicinity. The sky is turquoise, the clouds white and wispy. In short, a beautiful day, perhaps he can pretend that the night has washed all the heartaches away. He knows, though, that they can be pulled back into their perspective boxes for a time, but sooner or later they will return. It is alright when they can battle them together.

John is lost in the beauty of the scene before him when there is movement beside him. His personal beauty appears like an apparition in the same, skin-tight jeans from last night and his pale chest bare. John seriously considers just having Sherlock for breakfast but the sound coming from Sherlock is surely the result of an omniscient smirk, so John turns his back on both of the breathtaking views and returns to the self-appointed task at hand.


	3. Music to the Story in Your Eyes

Breakfast is finished, the dishes loaded into the dishwasher and they are seated together on the large sofa; Sherlock is lounging on his back with his head in John’s lap while John is flipping through channels on the gargantuan television with one hand and carding through Sherlock’s silky clean hair with the other. Sherlock has absolutely no interest in anything on the idiot box, so instead he watches John, his eyes half-closed against the relaxing touch of John’s fingertips.

“Sherlock, where did you find that kitten?” Though he seems to be aimlessly flipping through about a zillion channels, each as equally boring as the previous, John’s mind is anything but quiet right now. It took him a long time to adjust to a Sherlock who can sit still for any length of time without a case to occupy his mind. There is no doubt that when Sherlock returned six years ago, in some aspects he returned a different person, his mind more ordered; John thinks that perhaps he added new rooms to his Mind Palace, maybe even a courtyard for those dreaded _down times_.

What John doesn’t know, however, is that there is an entire wing devoted to those heretofore hated things known to normal people as _days off_. Most of the rooms in that wing are decorated with photos and portraits of John: John fishing, John dropping water balloons from the roof of New Scotland Yard onto the heads of Donovan and Anderson; John riding a horse, a motorbike, Sherlock; and many, many more. They are not all happy pictures, though, including the snapshot of John’s cycle of emotions that played on his face the day Sherlock reappeared: shock, anger, betrayal that became love, then lust…all within minutes.

Sherlock really wants to tell John the truth. He wants to tell him _why_ he found the kitten, which is to say that he really wants to admit his attempt and epic failure in finding the arsonist; however, he doesn’t want to hear the angry sound of John’s voice when he thinks that Sherlock abandoned him. Without realizing that the television has been switched off and John’s full attention is on him now, Sherlock comes back to icy blue eyes that lead a mind that has synthesized some of Sherlock’s skills and used them against him. Again. John is getting entirely too good at this.

Sherlock holds up a hand to stop John from saying anything, which looks really funny from John’s point of view which is looking _down_ into Sherlock’s face; most of the time, things are the other way around. He leans his head back against the soft material of the chocolate-brown couch and stares up at the cream-colored ceiling. He closes his eyes and sighs.

“I already know you went looking for the arsonist, Sherlock. Where _else_ would you disappear to if you weren’t with _me_ while our home burned down into a pile of ash on the ground in front of my eyes?”

Sherlock knows _that_ voice. That’s the voice that tells him _you-will-pay-for-this-later_. He swallows the lump that has formed in his throat before answering. “Yes, I did, John. It hurts me as much as it hurts you to see what happened. But it _happened_ and there was nothing to fix. So, yes, I did go around in order to see what I could find. Of course, that is the reason I do not _ever_ take on arson cases: for the most part, the nature of the fire destroys any and all useable evidence.” He looks up at John with an open expression, searching his eyes for that twinkle of pride that he is always gifted with when he’s being particularly brilliant; even in John’s irritation, it’s still there. Sherlock takes that to mean that he should continue.  

“Yes. I was walking around the side of the building where Speedy’s used to stand and almost stepped on the creature. I started walking away when I heard a pathetic little mewl. I turned around just as the thunder crashed and I could see that it trembled.” John can’t help the way his heart melts when Sherlock gives him the big, green puppy-dog eyes. “What else should I have done, John? I couldn’t just leave it there, all alone…”

Oh god, he even produces a tear. Well, John is done, bye-bye, last train going North tonight, see ‘ya. “Sherlock, if this is all an act to get out of me forcing some type of menial housework on you for trying to chase down a perp when _your_ home was going up in a blaze….” John waves the television remote like a pointer between them.

Sherlock cuts John off by grasping the back of his neck with one hand and gently but firmly pushes his head down by tugging at the short golden hairs at John’s nape. Sherlock moves his own head forwards to capture John’s mouth in a soft, undemanding kiss.

As always, life with Sherlock is an emotional roller-coaster, primarily due to Sherlock’s inexhaustible curiosity about everything; though it took time, John would now admit out loud to almost anyone that he has quite enjoyed the ride that has no end in sight. Their kiss grows more heated and John has to admit that Sherlock is telling the truth. They push and pull against each other until John is holding himself up on his arms overtop of Sherlock’s toned, half-naked body.

Things are just beginning to get interesting when there is the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing _very_ close to them. John raises his head to see Mycroft dressed in another one of his immaculate suits standing in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. He is carrying a bright purple plastic cat carrier in one hand and a wooden violin case in the other. Looking down into Sherlock’s quite needy expression, John thinks for a split second that perhaps they can just carry on when Sherlock turns his head and catches sight of the violin case. Even across the room, Mycroft can see the shift in Sherlock’s jade green gaze as he zeroes in on the familiar instrument.

“John, let me up.” He says in a voice that seems way too controlled for the hardness and heat that John can feel against his belly.

“Sherlock, you already are.” John deadpans straight to his lover’s face and then ruins the whole thing with giggles. He wonders when it became funny that Mycroft could simply appear in any room without a warning like a phantom. Maybe John’s brain just accepted it as normal after being around the Holmes brothers for so long.

Sherlock tries to give him a nasty glare but it goes to hell when he is taken for a ride on the sound of John’s laughter and chuckles himself. The change of direction works and John swings off of Sherlock and onto his feet just as quickly as he would have as a teenager getting caught necking on the couch.

Sherlock is silently thankful for the few seconds it took to calm down so as not to embarrass himself in front of his brother; well, not much more than normal, anyway. None of it matters, though, as he eyes the antique case in his brother’s hand. He holds one hand out towards Mycroft and Mycroft simply hands him the case without further discussion. He knows better than to attempt to keep Sherlock from the things he _wants_ , let alone _needs_ , and right now there are two things that his brother needs: John and his violin, or at least a reasonable stand-in for the instrument. They all learned a few years ago that there is absolutely _no_ replacement for the solid little army doctor.

Mycroft bends slightly at the waist to gently deposit the cat carrier onto the floor. He pushes the hasps to release the door and John reaches in to pull out a now clean, bright orange and white ball of fluffy fur. The kitten yawns and opens her golden eyes. Once again, John is completely undone by a pair of spectacularly colored irises in a beautifully put-together face. John thanks Mycroft and carries the kitten into the kitchen to give her a small meal and bowl of water.

Sherlock’s hawk eyes follow as John leaves the room, his guard down enough that his brother can read everything he is thinking quite plainly across his face. If he could just admit it to himself that it makes his heart sing to see his little brother so happy then maybe he would be able to reach out for that elusive emotion himself. He cannot, though, there is just too much at stake.

Finally satisfied that John is settled and does not need him, Sherlock turns his attention to the wooden case on lap and he opens it reverently, first touching it gently with his fingertips. Tucked inside the black velvet is a magnificent violin, a rare instrument, only one of seven of its kind in the world. However, Sherlock knows this particular instrument intimately, though this is the first time he has held it in his hands since before he moved to Baker Street. His lets his head droop, soft raven curls falling forward to cover his face, hoping it is enough to hide the way he is really feeling about the loss of his favorite instrument.

“Grandmother’s violin, Mycroft?” The utter disdain Sherlock interjects into his words to cover up his deep sentiment throws Mycroft off balance for just a moment until Sherlock looks up at him. The beyond-thrilled look in those overly shiny bottle green eyes is enough gratitude. Mycroft actually fights the urge to walk over and pat his little brother on the head as he had done so long ago when he takes in that that shine only means one thing: tears. Instead he offers Sherlock a stiff little tilt of the head; he doesn’t even bother to make it a nod, really; then turns on his heel and leaves the flat. It only occurs to Sherlock after Mycroft has vanished that there was absolutely no sound of the jangling of keys about his person. He makes a little grunt in acknowledgement of his brother’s sneaky ways, not too much, though; he will never give in to overindulging the cake-loving politician, even when he is good to them. Sherlock smiles inwardly, proud that he covered up his moment of weakness around his brother.

Even so, this time, he has to admit that Mycroft has done well by himself and John both. Without asking for anything in return, he has offered them shelter and even seen to the little details of daily life; giving Sherlock back his music is a gift that is above and beyond, possibly even by John’s standards. Sherlock flexes his fingers and begins the time-honored procedure of tuning the violin.

A few minutes later there is a knock on the door that is answered by John. Sherlock is only vaguely aware that one of Mycroft’s many assistants has arrived with new clothing for the both of them. Sherlock moves from playing the scales into a full-fledged concerto. John leans against the sturdy oak doorframe between the kitchen and the sitting room, just watching and listening. Much as Sherlock had done to John a little while ago, his eyes carefully track Sherlock’s movements as he paces the room, swaying, bending at the waist and stepping with each stroke of the bow, bare toes tipping lightly across the plush carpet to keep time with his playing. He listens to the familiar sounds of Sherlock using music to speak for him; John knows that he is hearing the melodies of his lover’s soul, at once both melancholy and joyous, a story of their time together: past, present, and future. The violin is already leaving pinkish pressure marks against the milky white of Sherlock's bare shoulder. John’s eyes slip closed on the picture before him as he leans against the frame letting each and every single note cleanse the darkness from his own heart.


	4. Tide Slowly Turning

“How is it that _you_ have known about _this_ all this time and never once mentioned it to _me_?” Sherlock’s voice is drawn out of his mouth in an angry but soft hiss, reminding John strongly of a Saw Scaled Viper. He has narrowed his eyes towards his brother, completing the resemblance to the poisonous snake. With the flick of one of Sherlock’s wrists, the manila file folder goes flying across the kitchen, spilling papers and photographs into a spastic heap as it arches into its parabola before finally coming to rest in the center of the floor.

Mycroft glares down at the mess and then up to his brother as he pushes his chair away from the table. He slams both hands palm down against the heavy mahogany top hard enough to make the entire thing shake. John watches them carefully, picking up his cup before the tea can be sloshed all over the place. He sighs loudly, knowing full well that when one Holmes brother is in a full out strop he’s going to be ignored; but both of them? He might as well not even exist.

“I did not _enlighten_ you, dear brother, because I had no evidence that it was the same arsonist! All I had to go on were all of these…” he uses his entire hand to point at the file, then moving it towards the pile, “isolated fires, many of which were never reported through the proper channels; and of course my own theories. Before now, this would not have even been a “two” on your boring to interesting case scale!” Mycroft is shouting now and the two of them are nose-to-nose, Sherlock’s head tilted downward just a fraction to make up the several centimeter differences in their heights. “Did you and your massive intellect even _read_ that Wickersham starts each and every fire with different propellants, different materials?” Mycroft’s face is red even under the thinning hair on the back of his head that John can see clearly since he is facing Sherlock.

John sips his tea and calmly waits for the inevitable jab at Sherlock’s sex life, _their_ sex life. Somehow, it never manifests itself. Strange for Mycroft to be so restrained, John ruminates on that for a second. Mycroft is holding his hands completely still at his sides, though the fingers that usually rest on the top of his umbrella are moving, searching for the handle. Sherlock is manically waving his hands in the air, of course making a dashing spectacle even surrounded by such a small audience. With his crown of Einsteinean locks and high color on his razor-sharp cheekbones, John thinks that his lover looks quite deranged at the moment. He leans against the high wooden back of the chair and wonders if this is how mortals would feel if they were ever to get to watch the Titans battle for dominance of the universe.

“Yes, but your _educated guesses_ are usually much better than anyone else’s concrete evidence.” Sherlock spits out. He suddenly freezes and looks in John’s direction, a helpless expression his face. John understands that Sherlock just complimented his brother, quite the momentous occasion—and, judging by that completely out-of-the-blue expression, quite by accident, too. He takes another sip of his fast cooling tea. You are on your own, hot stuff, John thinks in Sherlock’s direction.

The kitchen remains absolutely silent for exactly seven heartbeats and then Mycroft seems to shrink in his own skin a little as he steps back from his sibling, adjusting his neat waistcoat with both hands and rolling the sleeves on his crisply ironed shirt back down to his wrists primly. He silently fastens the platinum cufflinks while giving John a neat little grin. John has to fight the urge to fall down and roll around in the floor and laugh his ass off, though he cannot tell which of the two of them is more amazed by Sherlock’s words: Mycroft or Sherlock. That would give him away, though; he doesn’t want the Holmes brothers to know _just_ how close John observes them.

Sherlock is now standing completely still with his hands buried in his hair. His breath is coming quickly through parted lips and John is pretty sure that if he looks close enough he will see Sherlock’s heartbeat clearly beneath the thin gray T-shirt he’s wearing. Mycroft clears his throat as he moves towards the front door. He opens it and says quietly without turning around in a voice that on anyone else would sound a touch hurt. “Besides, you will never take one of my usual cases.” He clicks the door shut quietly as he steps through it.

Sherlock grabs the first thing he can reach, which turns out to be a rather dramatically large kitchen knife, and hurls it in Mycroft’s direction with a perfect knife-thrower’s aim; it moves so fast that John can barely see the wink of light against the shiny steel blade before it hits the back of the door just as it closes with a solid thud. The knife is buried an easy seven centimeters into the highly-polished wood. For some reason, the sight of the blade sticking out of the door sends shivers down his spine. Just when did Sherlock learn to aim a blade with that much deadly accurate precision?

Sherlock’s attention is on the door and his vanishing brother, though he turns to face John with a look of pure horror when he realizes what he has just done. Crimson flushed lips that were parted earlier are now open in a perfect “o.” In all the years since he’s been back with John, he has never really given his lover any specific details on how he eliminated the many threats he was facing. John just stares at him with wide eyes; he can find no words to say. Sherlock tenses up again and waits for what he thinks will be the inevitable outcome of his instinctive action.  

John’s inner medic assesses the situation quickly and he decides not to push his luck. For some strange reason, John gets a mental picture of a little guy in a white lab coat standing on one of his shoulders and a soldier in full-out fatigues on the other. Now is not the time, however, Sherlock is already in a bad way and pushing further might be a huge mistake. Instead he silently pushes away from the table and carefully lays his cup in the sink, controlling every single in muscle in his body. He turns away from Sherlock, forcing himself to _not_ feel the sudden rash of goose bumps that wind down his back and across his shoulders from presenting Sherlock with his a target as he walks to the sitting room. He sits down on the sofa, crossing one denim-clad  leg calmly over the other and watches Sherlock carefully. He is thankful that his movements do not betray him. 

For an instant there is the flicker of understanding on Sherlock’s face. He wonders how he’s managed to keep something like this under wraps for six years. Looking at John’s closed-in, wary expression, however, he decides to file it away for now. He starts picking up all the various entrails of the file and stacks them on the table. He reaches out to pull back a chair but is interrupted by John’s voice.

“Sherlock. Leave it for now.” Sherlock looks in John’s direction and then back to the file, like a barefooted, gangly child conflicted when faced with two equally lovely desserts to choose from. “Sherlock, leave it.”He complies and moves into the other room to stand in front of John waiting for his scolding.

John knows better, though. Of all the things that they really don’t discuss, the intimate details of Sherlock’s time abroad, as he has come to think of it, is probably the largest white elephant of them all. Perhaps they need to change that. John isn’t stupid: Sherlock gave him scant details of what he had to do; John did not ask for the “how.”He pats the cushion next to him, an invitation that Sherlock understands that he can accept or ignore at his leisure. He chooses to accept and sits down, pressing his thigh against John’s, the heat is reassuring. John rests his hand on Sherlock’s leg above the knee; Sherlock covers it with his own. “Tell me about the arsonist, Sherlock.” John requests.

“Charles P. Wickersham, currently age twenty. He’s got quite the record for fires, starting his first one at age seven, each one progressively worse until the one that claimed his parents’ lives when he was nine.”

John is most certainly a man of the world; even so, he cannot control the gasp of shock when Sherlock tells him that a nine-year-old child killed his parents. Sherlock continues his rehashing of the pertinent information of the case, information that John knows he had studied for less than ten minutes before the sibling squabble broke out and Sherlock attempted to repaper the kitchen in printer paper. By the time Sherlock wraps it up, the little orange and white kitten has jumped up into his lap and is resting against his stomach purring. John is slowly petting her on the head listening to Sherlock. He knows this is a great way for Sherlock to make the information concrete in his head, he will probably not even need to look at the file again. As he listens to his lover, John contemplates a name for the kitten.

Sherlock’s voice comes to a complete halt as soon as he realizes John is no longer hanging on every single word as if they were the greatest thing to ever happen to him. He looks down at John’s arm stretched across his thigh, John’s hand on the kitten’s back and makes a _hmprf_ sound in his throat. John startles out of his reverie and sits up. Sherlock’s gaze is open, questioning. John shakes his shoulders a bit, giving a brief, tight smile.

“No, John. Tell me.” Sherlock orders, using his best melted-chocolate baritone that he knows usually gets him _anything_ he wants from John.

“Ah, Sherlock, you’ll think it is stupid and call me an idiot.” John’s expression is guarded; really he has nothing to go on in this situation; they have never even discussed having a pet before.

“You want to give the kitten a name but for some reason you hesitate to ask me. Again, tell me.” Sherlock crosses his arms carefully so as not to upset the sleeping, purring fuzz ball tucked up against his stomach. It is far too interesting a feeling through the thin cotton of his shirt to push her away.

“Well, for all that, I’ve already given her a name then.” John looks away towards the television.

“Do tell.” Sherlock is pretty sure it’s going to be something silly like “Daphne” or “Molly.”

“I want to call her something that reminds me of you...well, of _us_ , really.” John still isn’t looking at him.

Sherlock uncrosses his arms and reaches out a hand towards John’s, resting his palm under John’s chin and coaxing his lover to look him in the eye. He doesn’t say anything, just waits. For everything that they have said to each other with words, with touches, with their bodies; there are still those things that are unsaid; possibly enough to fill up the entire set of World Encyclopedias-online edition. Sherlock waits.

John rolls it over in his mind, hoping that Sherlock will understand. He was hurt when Sherlock reappeared, but there was so much gratitude. Why, after all this time has he never told Sherlock any of this? How can he explain what their relationship is to him? How can he ever make it clear that it was like he was given his life back, all wrapped up in purple velvet with a big bow on top? He sighs and mumbles, knowing full well that Sherlock could not hear him, gently stroking the kitten with the palm of his hand. She arches her back just slightly, obviously enjoying John’s gentle touch.

Sherlock leans in close, keeping his hand on John’s chin. He is close enough to kiss, close enough that John could just end this uncomfortable conversation right at this second by leaning in and…

Instead he searches deep into the depths of the jade green orbs for a promise. When he finds it, he states simply:

“Phoenix.”

Sherlock nods once and closes the gap between their faces.


	5. Wash all the Heartaches Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexy times. That is all.

After the heated kiss that intensified tenfold on the sofa, John and Sherlock move towards the bedroom, shedding clothing along the way in that way that men do: a shirt here, a pair of jeans, a sock and another sock, tiny Stonehenge clones that say “we were here.” They fall together onto the silk-sheeted mattress, arms and legs twined and knotted around each other, each man in the place that he calls his own. Their hearts are a never ending, rolling, driving beat that they create between them. Fingertips search for a hold, grasping and sometimes bruising both pale and mildly tan skin. The crest of the tide overtakes them and they are left complete.

Lips meet as the heat between them begins to cool, yet the desire at this moment is as strong as every single year before; they feel closer now than they ever have: as if the tragedy that has again changed their lives—together this time—has made each man not only see what it important to him, but acknowledge it in a much deeper way. They were pulled apart by tragedy before, but this time it is different: the idea that one or both of them could have been trapped, unable to witness the light of a new day— _that_ has broken down walls that have stood the tests of their loyalty, strength and commitment to each other though many times before.

John holds himself up on his arms, his eyes closed and lips murmuring the lyrics of their song in between gentle kisses. Sweat is a silvery sheen over his muscular shoulders, reflecting the dimmed amber light from Tiffany lamp on the bed stand. It is late afternoon and the sunlight cannot penetrate the drapes that have been pulled closed over the windows. Sometimes they need to feel that it is time for only each other, without even the sun to bear witness to the blending of souls, the merging of hearts and minds of their love making. It is so much more than physical, between these two, as it always has been, even before they were aware of how wonderful their bodies would fit together: a puzzle that will never again be taken apart.

Needy grunts and eager growls have given way to softer sighs and whispers. Sherlock’s legs are wrapped tightly around John’s torso, crossed at the well-formed ankles just below John’s hips. Moments ago, Sherlock’s hands were pulling his lover closer, always closer to his ribs as if they could simply fuse and become a single being, those hands are now relaxed at the base of John’s spine, gently kneading the slightly softening muscles found there. He gently caresses the tops of John’s buttocks with his fingertips, rolling his hips slowly as John opens and then closes his eyes. He opens his mouth to allow John’s words to enter his body, they fill up his mind, his heart and his soul as much as his strong lover fills him physically. Sherlock gives a breathless whimper as John’s now flagging arousal slips out of him. There is a rush of heat as he gasps against John’s playfully smiling mouth.

John opens his eyes to take in the sight of his lover, the muscles bunching with tension in his shoulders as he lets his forehead brush Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock’s cheeks are shaded rose; his lips are crimson from the pressure of John’s careful mouth. Black and silver curls are mussed in a beautifully wild array against the sapphire silk pillowcase. Green eyes are almost black in the dim light. With each tender kiss, John speaks his mind to his love.

“Gorgeous.” Kiss.

“Pleasing.” Kiss.

“The sculptor broke…” Kiss.

“The mold when you were” Kiss.

“Created.” Kiss.

Sherlock is so utterly relaxed that the only part of his body he can move with any precision is his mouth. His legs are still locked around John. He gazes deep into the brilliant blue depths of John’s irises, not even closing his own with the press of each brush of John’s lips against his sensitive mouth. He reaches out and gives the briefest brush of the tip of his tongue against John’s bottom lip each time John pulls away. His intense gaze is that of a falcon that has found its prey as he admires the flush of capillary refill across John’s face.

Finally, John’s arms begin to tremble slightly from exhaustion. With one more adoring kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, he licks the salt from his mouth as he stares into those soul-rending eyes and then rolls onto his back. For a brief time, they remain this way, minds cleared of the fears of almost-loss. As all things do in nature, it does not last and they are soon asleep.


	6. We Never Get An Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shall we look in on Mycroft?

> **_…In the grey of the morning_ **
> 
> **_My mind becomes confused_ **
> 
> **_Between the dead and the sleeping_ **
> 
> **_And the road that I must choose_ **
> 
> **_I’m looking for someone to change my life_ **
> 
> **_I’m looking for a miracle in my life_ **
> 
> **_And if you could see, what it’s done to me_ **
> 
> **_To lose the love I knew could safely lead me to_ **
> 
> **_The land that I once knew_ **
> 
> **_To learn as we grow old_ **
> 
> **_The secrets of our souls_ **
> 
> **Question, © the Moody Blues**
> 
> * * *

**M** ycroft Holmes sits at his desk with his head bowed and his face in his hands; his hands shake slightly as he rubs at his eyes. His office is quiet; no one else has come in today; he hasn’t bothered to turn on music of any kind. He is still attempting to shake off the shock of his brother’s back-handed, barbed compliment from earlier today. He allows the responsibilities of his station to sit upon his shoulders like a cape; the worries over what remains of his family sit atop his head like a golden crown: Sherlock and John the jewels, amethyst and sapphire. He will never admit it out loud, but since John appeared all those years ago, he has become part of their family. By taking their relationship farther, Sherlock and John only cemented the deal. Mycroft knows that the next step won’t be far behind; but then again, it did take them almost four years to acknowledge how they felt about each other. He shifts a few papers on his desk, not really paying any particular attention to any of them, just allowing his fingers to have something to do while he moves through the halls of his mind.

As he walked away from the entry to the penthouse toward the lift, he very clearly heard the _thunk_ of something metallic striking the back of the door. He is about ninety-nine point nine percent certain that the object was a knife, most likely one of the set that sits on the kitchen counter just to the left of where Sherlock had been standing during their argument and subsequent revelations. He does not believe that it was intended to be a weapon raised _against_ him, but rather a protective device, a message from Sherlock’s mind to Sherlock’s body—a threat made in a flash of anger for allowing his emotions to show through his proverbial armor; before now only John Watson has broken through that self-imposed steel cage. It is another step on Sherlock’s journey into greatness, he feels.

Mycroft opens his eyes and stares at the expensively hand-matted and framed photograph that sits dead-center of the otherwise empty white wall opposite his desk. It is a large poster-sized print of a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; underneath the photograph is a line of white text that reads “No Man Is An Island.” Mycroft has detested the print since it was first given to him as a gift; his feelings about the poster do not make the sentiment any less true. He considers the print for a moment, trying not to think about the unfamiliar flash of jealously that welled through his body as he saw his brother’s eyes track John’s movements through the sitting room until the older man was out of sight in the kitchen.

Of course, he really has no clue as to why he offered them the penthouse in the first place. He tilts his head back to rest on the chair, letting his eyes slip closed for the first time in two days. Mycroft tells himself that is only exhaustion that is causing his mind to dwell on such unimportant details; he cannot stop himself from considering just how different his own life is since his younger brother reappeared. Just because he knew part of the scheme to bring down Moriarty and the consulting criminal’s league of previously unknown assorted baddies didn’t make it any less shocking the first time he saw Sherlock in over a year. Even he had to admit that Sherlock was _different_ in ways Mycroft could not define. Giving him Grandmother’s violin today was possibly an attempt to bridge the gap between them.

From there, Mycroft thinks about the last two lovers he had liaisons with at the penthouse: a man almost as young as Sherlock and later, a woman close to his own age. The man lost all interest in Mycroft soon after he was no longer needed to be arm candy; Roger spent the night on the couch in front of the television. Mycroft slipped out long before morning to keep up appearances. He was not emotionally hurt by Roger’s idiocy as much as disappointed, as the man had been someone he had looked up to in his younger years. Well, that ship has certainly sailed; at this point, Mycroft can barely even recall what Roger looked like, except that he was fairly tall and with Egyptian ancestors somewhere on his family tree. It is a lie, though, because sometimes at night Mycroft can see those brown eyes boring into his soul as Roger told him that sometimes lies are better than the truth, no matter how many people get hurt.

The woman, Paige, stayed the night with Mycroft. She was petite, neatly dressed in a scarlet formal and white fur wraparound when they met at the ball that evening. They ran through the entire _Kama Sutra_ in twelve hours and Mycroft awoke refreshed with a song on his lips and a fresh new feeling of _hope_ in his heart. His heart crashed, however, when he found himself alone in the big bed. He found her standing on the balcony, her  pale face streaked with tears as she admitted she was married and had only been hunting for a fling because she had argued with her husband over having children. Said husband had apparently left a score of text messages on her mobile and she was sorry, but she was returning home to him that very day. Always the gentleman, Mycroft let her go without a word.

It was exactly a year later, standing on that very balcony that Mycroft learned Paige had murdered her husband in cold blood while he slept one night. Apparently her need to become pregnant overrode her ability to use her brain. She would be locked up for a long time to come; not exactly the sort of life she pictured, surely.

Mycroft scratches the back of his neck with his neatly manicured fingernails, bending his neck and head towards the top of the antique desk. He stands, returning the black leather upholstered ergonomically correct chair into its rightful place. He snatches his mobile from a stack of files and grabs his umbrella from where it leans against the door frame. His suit jacket hands on a hook on the back of the ebony door; it gets folded neatly over his arm. Mycroft opens the door by pressing his thumb over the pad beside the handle; he tilts his head slightly as he listens for the tiny _click_ that says the door is open and secure. As he leaves the office he is all too aware of the figure he cuts as his long legs eat up the corridor as he strides out of the building. He is sure is looks powerful in his dove grey three piece suit, his dark red hair styled neatly and his leather wingtips shined within an inch of their lives.

In the underground parking garage Mycroft deftly keys in his security code on the pad under the handle on the door of his white Jaguar, his personal car. He snorts a little to himself when he considers that Sherlock thinks he rides around all day in glossy black limousines and sedans; truthfully, he only does that when he needs to impress someone or he has other business to attend to that cannot be stopped just because he needs to be in three places at the same time. He may be a lone wolf, but he is also a wolf in control of his own destiny.


	7. The Grey of the Morning

Mycroft Holmes is awake several minutes before the old-fashioned ticking alarm clock goes off. He lies still, listening to its steady beats that are almost like another person’s heartbeat. Though some people might find the sound annoying, he discovered many years ago that sometimes the consistent sound allowed his mind to churn along with each _tick_ , helping him to fine-tune his own process. He kicks his silk-pajama clad legs briefly, checking that all is in working order. With his hands underneath his head he lays back and enjoys the small blessing of being able to wake up slowly, because once his day begins sometimes he may not see the end of it for one day, two days; once, six years ago, he was awake for almost five days before he lost control and fell asleep at his desk. He suppresses a shudder; _that_ is certainly not something he wants to go through ever again, it was mortifying being half-carried out of his office by his minio---no, assistants.

When the buzzer on the clock finally sounds, Mycroft rolls out from under the fine light green duvet without hardly disturbing the rest of it. Only one side of the King-sized bed has been slept in, the other still has neat corners and is without a single wrinkle. Mycroft straightens up the side of the bed that he has just exited; anyone entering the room would never believe a human being had gotten out of it just moments before. He relieves himself, showers and shaves with a military precision that he is sure Sherlock’s Captain would be proud of. All told, he is out of bed, dressed immaculately today in a dark blue suit with matching silk tie and pocket square, and on his way to his car in fifteen minutes. It would have been ten but he decided to have a scone this morning instead of just coffee.

He opens the glass-paneled front door and takes a sweeping look around his neat, orderly house. When he is satisfied that everything is in its place, he locks up and heads to the garage. Mycroft taps the security code on the pad nearest the house and the garage door comes to life, its cables and motors whirring steadily as the white-washed door rises. He hums a little under his breath and rocks the brolly on his arm in time with hydraulic pull of the door. The sky above him is a stately blue-grey filled with darker grey clouds. Looks like rain.

Unsurprisingly, the garage is as ridiculously neat and organized as the house. On the incredibly clean cement floor next to the Jaguar sits a pair of motorcycles, both of them looking stately in their custom paint jobs of metallic amethyst, sapphire and chrome with silver and gold flames. He gives them a glance, considers the weather and shakes his head. No way is he taking one of those babies out if there’s the slightest chance of rain. Of course, Sherlock would just say it is because he doesn’t want to get his leathers wet; in reality, he’s been putting off getting on one of them for various reasons for several years. His personal mechanic comes in and keeps them running perfectly, yet Mycroft never rides. Perhaps it is the idea that there are two of them and he can only ride one at a time, at least that's what he tells himself.

Giving the touring bikes one more look, he punches in the security code for his car. He smoothly folds into the drivers’ seat, taking care to keep the even the slightest wrinkles out of his suit. The soft, scarlet material that sets off the polished wooden dash is cool under the seat of his trousers. He reaches up and grabs the key from behind the sun visor and slips it into the ignition. The back of his neck grows warm suddenly when a memory of his last female lover swims into his mind unbidden. He wonders if he should have sold the Jag after that. He concentrates and brings himself back under control, shifting the car into reverse and backing down the long driveway flanked by manicured hunter green shrubbery and flowers of every color.

Mycroft drives to the office calmly, enjoying the purr of the engine as the car rides smoothly down on the motorways. He arrives at his normal thirty-minutes early time, easing the car into his personal parking space. The sign in front of the squared off concrete pylon simply says “Holmes” in neat black lettering. He folds down the visor and puts the key into the slot cut into the back of the leather for it. Mycroft then exits the car, but not before resetting his security code for the day. Once he is satisfied, he strides towards the building, his mind already working on the issues of the day and setting his face into the normal I-say-I-have-no-power-but-in-reality-I-have-ALL-of-the-power mask. It settles over his relaxed expression straightening out his mouth like a woman straightens wavy hair. This is his battle-dress: the face of Mycroft Holmes that the majority of his subordinates and other politicians see every day; it is as much a suit of armor as his suits and his little brother’s careless, above-it-all attitude. There are very few people who have the courage to see through it: most of the members of his hypothetical pack are not even worth the bother of getting close enough to in order to try. He takes out his phone and flips it open, ready to begin the day.

~o~o~o~

“Sherlock, get off me.” John grumbles from underneath his rather heavy lover as the taller man is forcing his face down into the pillow scrunched up beneath his head. He is answered with a pouty teen-age sounding “no.” John sighs; every so often he has to pull rank and it looks like this is going to be one of those times. He swiftly kicks himself up onto his knees, forcing Sherlock to roll off of his back and land on the mattress with a little bounce. John settles one knee against Sherlock’s torso and grabs both of his wrists in one hand and pulls them upward, effectively pinning him down. Sherlock looks absolutely gobsmacked, the angles on his face muted by the weak light peering around the one drape that they forgot to fully close last night. John rubs his shoulder with his empty hand, thinking of how much it aches when the weather is cold and rainy. He does take a little pride in noticing that he isn’t even breathing heavily from the exertion of manhandling his over-thirty-year old adolescent.

“What? You didn’t think this old man could still move you? You aren’t a boulder, Sherlock.” John snorts as he heads into the bathroom considering that sometimes his lover is as stubborn as a piece of old granite. Sure, he’s no featherweight but John is no stranger to protecting himself, either. When he peers into the bedroom before turning on the shower, Sherlock lies there on his back and continues to look amazed. Ha! Thinks John, that’s what you get for keeping your skills with a blade secret from me.

By the time John has showered and dressed, Sherlock is sitting in the kitchen in a skin-tight black T-shirt with his face buried deep into the pile of old arson cases that he managed to sweet-talk from the records lady at the Yard. As much as John loves to watch Sherlock “in action,” he feels that it’s wrong for him to enable the charade. It does get results much faster than going through “official” channels. For a split second he is torn.

Oh hell. Who is he kidding? He chose sides a long time ago and his bet has always been played on Sherlock to win, place or show. Always. He hefts a bit of a winsome sigh and notes the lights burning on the ceiling. He can hear the rain sloshing against the windows. So much for that superb view from the balcony; at least they have something to occupy their minds for the time being.

“What have we got?” He asks as he pulls out the heavy wooden chair next to Sherlock at the same time reaching over the table to pop his small round reading glasses onto his face. Sherlock yanks a couple of pages out of one of the files and spreads them out for John to see. In this way, Sherlock is viewing them upside down so that John can see them correctly. It is a small gesture that would be meaningless to most people; to John, though, it is yet another example of the person Sherlock really _is._

One is a photograph of a very tiny burned out fire in the back room of what seems to be a grocery store. It would actually be difficult to tell that there was any fire at all, save for the scorch marks on the cracked tile floor. The other is a close-up of the gray metal trash bin that the fire was started in; there appears to be no smoke damage of any kind around the object at all, or on the shelves of supplies behind the bin. The third and fourth pages are copies of a witness statement and the original report made by the store owners. Once Sherlock sees that John has scanned them, he adds a copy of a report filed by the store owners’ insurance agency: the agency had concluded that the fire was an attempt at insurance fraud.

“That’s ridiculous.”John states as he looks up into Sherlock’s face. The green gaze is quartz crystal today; John knows that look: Sherlock is on to something _big_. He shifts a little on his chair, as eager to hear Sherlock praise him as is usual the other way around between them.

“Yes, and…” He says to John, gesturing with one hand in an attempt for John to go on.

“If it was insurance fraud, wouldn’t there have been you know, actual damage to the goods in the store?” He scratches an annoying itch on his thigh through the rather stiff pair of new jeans he is wearing.

“Spot on, John. Spot on.” Sherlock points at the photographs. “See here, here and here? It is clear that this fire was started by a novice, someone who was experimenting, trying to choose which way it would start faster; the fire maker was also seeing how much of the fire he could _control_.” Sherlock narrows his eyes down as he taps at the photograph with a long finger. His voice is quiet but tight: “They are ALL like this.” John takes note that the end of the nail is ragged as if its been chewed. He pulls back a little to really _study_ Sherlock’s face, wondering if his partner is now regretting all of those arson cases he turned down while Lestrade was still DI. Of course, those cases would have only involved alleged homicides, so perhaps he never would have come across any of these in the first place.

“Sherlock, you did not actually sleep last night, did you?” John asks, point blank. Such a familiar question surrounded by such unfamiliar trappings. He tries to remember the feeling of the other man's warmth; in reality, he had fallen asleep almost before his head had hit the pillow last night.

Sherlock busies himself by stacking the papers and photographs into a neat pile. Yeah, right, John thinks: he certainly knows better now. The staccato beats of the raindrops on the ceiling grow in volume, though it is still quieter than it would have been at Baker Street. John can’t decide if he hates or not.

“Why?” There is no point in nagging the man about his sleeping habits, even though they have seemed to improve even when he is working a case over the last few years. “It’s been so long, Sherlock…”

Sherlock settles down heavily into his chair, causing the floor and by default, the table, to vibrate. The neat stack of paperwork threatens to topple. He stares unseeingly at the cold evidence all around them and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls on the back of his scalp in irritation. “I want to bring him down, John.”His deep voice carries over the sound of the rain and the quiet hum of the appliances that surround them.

John doesn’t need to ask, he knows to whom Sherlock refers. He clears his throat and takes off his glasses, holding them in one hand and resting his elbows on the table, a movement that makes him look even older and wiser as he sits across the table in a brand new mustard-yellow cable-knit jumper that matches the gold strands that still remain in his hair. “I know I shouldn’t ask this, but are you absolutely certain to within a reasonable doubt that Wickersham is the person who is responsible?”

For a second, Sherlock considers changing the subject and telling John how sexy he looks when he holds his spectacles in his hand that way. He reins it in though and states simply: “John, you know my methods. Would I even suggest it? I want this man. I want to make him pay for taking away our home.”

John cannot agree more. In that moment, Sherlock looks every bit the mature, world-wide traveler that he has grown to be and not the grumpy adolescent shocked by his lover’s ability to flip him around bodily that he was this morning. He just smiles and turns back to the files, casually watching Sherlock’s eyelids grow heavier and heavier with each turn of a page.


	8. My Mind Becomes Confused

Evelyn “Evie” Winstone is perched uncomfortably on the seat of the chocolate brown sofa in the sitting room of the penthouse. She has just come from work and so feels completely out of place in her blue coveralls with the various spots and splatters of oil and such on them. Dr. Watson, no John—he asked her to call him John—is in the kitchen where she presumes he is making tea. Sherlock Holmes is nowhere to be found. She twists a little, trying to get comfortable and get her thoughts in order. She gets a big whiff of herself while attempting a better position on the sofa all the while watching the entryway for the kitchen and the front door.

The scents of motor oil, petrol, and orange hand-cleansing soap hang about her person like an aura and are completely out of place here. She desperately wishes she would have taken the time to shower. She washed up as quickly as possible and raced down here after Tommy Finnery, the shop foreman, called her over to his laptop and showed her the notice that had been posted on the big social network site that morning. Once she recognized a single name from the entire post, it had been her only thought up until this very moment. Now that she is here, however, it seems foolish that she was in such a hurry. She takes a deep breath as John brings in a tea service for two on a silver platter.

Naturally, the sight of the fancy tea tray that she is fairly certain is _real_ silver makes her even more uncomfortable. She looks around the room at anything that isn’t John. He clears his throat and repeats the question that she obviously didn’t hear.

“Sugar?” John waits with his hand on the lid of the sugar dish.

Evie starts a bit but swings her gaze back to him. “Yes, two please.” She answers in a timid voice, watching him carry out her order. He hands her the white porcelain cup decorated with fine green vines and violets. Her hand shakes a little and she is absolutely mortified at the idea of breaking such a dainty thing. She takes a single sip and sets the cup down on the low mahogany coffee table between the sofa and the chair John dragged over when she had first arrived.  

John decides that this young woman has beautiful blue eyes. He has to figure out a way to get her to calm down a bit so that he can ask her about Wickersham. He studies her a little, taking careful mental notes of the way she sets the cup down and the way she seems completely overwhelmed by the décor of the sitting room. With the coveralls and the oil stain across her forehead that she must have missed in her rush to arrive here, John considers that Evie is an out-of-doors type of person. He has a slight epiphany.

“Evie, would you like to sit outside?” Her eyes open impossibly wider and she nods to him. He seems to be alright, dressed in jeans that seem to be new with a white vest underneath an open blue-and-light green checked flannel shirt. If anything he reminds her of her grandfather, may his soul rest in peace.

Evie follows John across the room where he pushes open the glass door. He steps back and waves her through. The tension she has carried in her shoulders begins to leave her as she breathes deeply; very happy to be outside in the fresh but chilly air. She nods and gives John a little smile before settling into one of the metal café chairs. Evie sits in the corner of the balcony with her back against the wall but also so she can see the view and John simultaneously. Her dark brown ponytail brushes against the brick, pillowing the back of her head.

John Watson, retired M.D. has not been the partner of the World’s Only Consulting Detective for the last six years plus not to have learned a thing or two. He can see that Evie has street smarts; she seems intelligent and obviously likes working with her hands. Seeing her relax a little, he decides that now is as good a time as any to start with the interview.

“Evie, you told me you saw Sherlock’s post this morning. What part of it caught your attention?” John sits back in the chair and crosses his legs, noticing that the bottom of his trainers still have soot stains on them from the fire over two weeks ago.

“Charles Wickersham.” Evie cuts right to the chase. There is something about John that is having a calming influence on her spinning mind, allowing her thoughts to become more orderly than they have all day. She stretches her legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles. Her heavy work boots still feel incongruous here, but at least there’s fresh air and not some thick posh carpet that the soles of her boots leave marks on. 

John merely nods silently, an invitation to go on.

“He worked at the shop for a while last autumn, I want to say late August, early September. I remember that it seemed like he had a lot of problems, because he didn’t really talk to anyone much. He said maybe, I don’t know, twenty words to me the whole month he was there.” Her gaze follows the skyline as two Peregrine falcons swoop by the balcony, their wings making barely a hint of sound as they pass by.

For a moment, they sit and watch the birds until Evie clears her throat. John turns to her and sees that there are tears on her cheeks and a faraway look in her eyes.

“Evie, what happened with Charles?” For once in his life, John isn’t sure that reaching out to her would be a good idea, so he just softens the tone of his voice. Evie sniffs and wipes at her nose. Right at that moment, Phoenix chooses to waltz out the door and jump right up into Evie’s lap. The young woman lets out a watery little laugh and her hands stroke the kitten as if drawn to the soft fur like a magnet.

“I’m really not sure, Mr. Wat—I mean John. He seemed like a decent-enough guy, so when he asked me down the pub that night after work, I said sure, why not. We sat and watched the match for a bit then went back to the shop. He said he had a job he was trying to finish for the next day.” She strokes Phoenix and slouches  down comfortably in the chair a little further.

“Evie, if you don’t want to tell me right now, it’s okay. We have established that you knew Charles personally and that’s really what Sherlock was searching for, someone who could give us information into his…”

“Well, you see, Charles wasn’t the name that he was using when he worked with me. I only found out about that later, after the fire.”

“Fire?” John asks. That pretty much tells him that they are on the right track.

“Yes. That night, after I left in a hurry; honestly, I was up for a little fun, but not for what he wanted…not at the _shop_ at least. I mean, granted, I love motorbikes and stuff, but that was just…well, weird.” She pauses, waiting on John’s judgment. When none is forthcoming, she continues. “Anyway, at that time he was going by Philip Wickers. A strange name, but then again, lots of people come looking for work, so no one was any the wiser; he had an ID, everything.” Evie seems to realize that her tendency to run her motor mouth has kicked in and she quiets for a moment.

“May I tell what happened next?” A deep baritone from the doorway interrupts their conversation. John turns to see his partner leaning against the jamb, hands deep in the pockets of a black leather jacket, his hair quite fashionably mussed upon his head.

“You must be Mr. Holmes.” Evie starts to rise but Phoenix gives a little mew of irritation. Sherlock steps over towards her and offers his hand. She shakes it gingerly, his broad pale paw pretty much engulfing her much smaller, browner one.

John smiles up at his gorgeous lover as Sherlock bends down to plant a soft kiss on his mouth. Evie lights up like a Christmas tree and when John turns back towards her, she is positively beaming. Oh god. He forgot about _girls_ and their addiction to sweet-romantic-stuff.

Sherlock gives a little huff and winks at John. “Well, you are the one who used to chase _them_.” John frowns up at him and smacks his behind loudly when Sherlock attempts to get out of range. Sherlock hears the unspoken _you git_ but chooses to ignore it. The fact is, John and his dates used to drive Sherlock completely ‘round the bend. Perhaps he has mellowed some; now it is just another part of their lives that they can joke about. Besides, he justifies to himself, there were an awful lot of _them_ who only chased _him_ trying to get to Sherlock in the first place. 

Sherlock leans against the balcony with his back to the scenery, his elbows resting against the top of the wall. “Let me see: you left Charles at the shop and went home. It probably wasn’t an hour before you were called and told that there was a fire at the shop. By the time the fire brigade showed up, there was only a single fire in a trash bin at the back and Charles was nowhere to be found. There was no other damage to anything, but possibly money was missing from the till?”

After all these years, John would think that he would get used to the expression on people’s faces when Sherlock gave them their entire story in less than ten sentences. He still enjoys it. Every time. This time was no different; John could feel the goofy grin split across his face as he watches Sherlock’s words tumble about Evie’s mind.

“You checked up on me?” Evie asks in bewilderment, one hand unconsciously wrapping around Phoenix, who mews out her displeasure.

“I don’t even know your name.” Sherlock speaks ever so slowly.  

Evie drops her eyes down to the kitten. “Evie Winstone.”

“Ah, there’s always something. I was thinking you were Evelyn.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkle with suppressed glee as he turns to face John, giving him a slow wink. He is beginning to enjoy learning pertinent facts about people and sometimes he manages to hold it in; a new thing he and John had cooked up a couple of years ago to basically keep John from killing Sherlock every single time he made a witness/victim burst into tears. For John, it was a way for Sherlock to soften the hard blows of his words, just a little, without changing the fact that the genius knew, well, pretty much everything. For Sherlock it had become another little game, a puzzle made up of how long he could hold everything in that gleaned from a new person at a single glance.

Evie actually laughs. She tells them that she only found out about Charles’ real name because a man she thinks is a detective had shown her some photographs of people he thought may have set the failed fire. One of them had been a photo of the man she knew as Philip, even though it was taken a few years prior, it was unmistakably him. The detective had left and no one had ever questioned it again; until the on-line post from today. Sherlock regards her shrewdly, his cool green gaze tearing apart her story in the search for untruths.

Now it was Evie’s turn to ask questions. “Why are you looking for information on Charles in the first place?”

Sherlock starts to speak. John is fairly certain that he will tell her _everything_ , including how the budding arsonist had killed his parents at age nine. He isn’t sure how good an idea that would be. He believes that Evie is telling the truth, but what he doesn’t know is whether she still has any connection to the man. John holds up a hand and for once Sherlock shuts it. Quite literally, too, his jaw actually snaps shut. _Drama queen_ , John thinks as he gives Sherlock a silent glare.

“Evie, have you had any contact with Charles since that night?” He asks.

“No. I never want to, either. He’s kind of a bastard, John and Mr. Holmes.” She stares directly into John’s eyes, never faltering for a second. John absolutely believes her. He has a feeling that Charles had tried to force himself on her, though he is much too polite go down that road.

Sherlock isn’t, however. “Charles tried to force you to have intercourse with him at the shop?”

Evie nods, still looking him straight in the eye.

“What stopped you?”

Evie looks down at Phoenix and as she does, something in her tough exterior falls away. She trusts these men and wants to tell them the part of the story even her grandfather had never heard. She strokes the orange and white fur and sighs, collecting herself before she speaks again. Her voice is soft enough that John and Sherlock both lean towards her in order to prevent her from being forced to repeat herself.

“He said that he wanted to have sex on the floor while the place burned down around us.” Her expression is grim, completely blocking them out.

A silent agreement passes between John and Sherlock. Sherlock leans back against the wall and John copies his movements in the chair. Evie continues to pet Phoenix while she fights down the tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks. They allow her the solitude, both men only watching her out of the corners of their eyes. After a time, she sniffs and raises her head. “Please don’t think ill of me. He was gone, there was no reason to tell anyone. Has he hurt someone?”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest. “He burned our home to the ground.”

Evie startles a little at the cold expression on his face. She thinks that she absolutely would not want to be Charles Wickersham, not for a second, not around this jade-eyed lion. 

“Would you like something to eat?” John asks her, standing up. “I’m going to make some sandwiches. You are more than welcome to stay.”

“Please. Thank you. Would you like some help?" Evie offers as she places Phoenix down on the wood. "Just let me wash up a bit first.” The kitten trots away with her tiny tail stiff in the air.

“Sure, come on in. Bathroom is down the hall.” With that, he stands back and lets her pass through the doorway ahead of him. His forward momentum is stopped when Sherlock reaches out and wraps his arms around John’s waist, effectively trapping the shorter man against him. He leans downward and rests his forehead against John’s bad shoulder.

“I _am_ going to get him, John.”

" _We_ are going to get him, Sherlock."

~o~o~o~

Evie and Sherlock are having a small quarrel apparently for fun about which brand of crisps tastes best while John is sitting in his chair trying to decide which side to take when there is a knock at the door. Before he can even move to answer it, Mycroft steps into the short foyer with yet another stack of files in his hands. John can see him from his chair at table. Mycroft can hear the voices that are steadily growing in volume and laughter of the quarrel, though he can only see into the kitchen as far as John's chair from his angle at the entryway. 

Mycroft’s umbrella hangs over one arm, gently swaying with the rolling motion of his strides. As much as his brother snipes at him about being “fat,” he is actually well-built, evidenced by the way his trousers tighten and release over the bunching muscles in his thighs. Today’s suit is charcoal grey, he is wearing a light blue shirt underneath and has already rolled up the sleeves. Everything about him says he is in working mode; today it will not last long.

He freezes when he gets to kitchen. His baby brother is in the midst of having some sort of ridiculous spat with a girl about fifteen years Sherlock’s junior. He catches a few words about “crisps” and then proceeds to tune out the entire bunch of gibberish. Unsure of whether he is welcome, he places the stack of files at the edge of the table away from the food. He then rests both hands on the back of the empty chair and studies this young woman.

_Possibly aged between twenty-two and twenty-five; works at a mechanic shop somewhere nearby. There is a blue and white Honda VFR1200F down in the parking garage, could it be hers? She has obviously come to talk to John and Sherlock about the Wickersham case. Why is she still here?_

To his considerable knowledge, they did not usually play host to witnesses or prospective clients any longer than they had to; that meant usually only long enough to get the information they sought. What was different about this one? He cast a wary look at John who was almost doubled over laughing at the other two. John certainly wasn’t looking at this girl any differently than any other one of his _friends_ …

Oh. John Watson has made a new friend. How nice. Well, that’s it then.

Mycroft clears his throat twice before Sherlock and John even notice he’s in the room. It is amazing to him how everyone else in his life either backs down or attempts shoe licking, except for these two. John stifles his giggles behind one hand while Sherlock simply goes mute, his bottom lip sticking out and his green eyes flashing. The young woman’s blue eyes hold Mycroft’s gaze from across the table and the whole world goes completely still. He takes note of the slight pinkish color of her cheeks brought about through her laughter with no less than his brother; John and Sherlock have ceased to exist in Mycroft's awareness at this point. Everything has come down to those eyes that are framed with long, dark lashes. 

John’s eyes move between Mycroft and Evie. He can’t believe what he is seeing. Of course, it answers rather a bunch of questions that he’s always had about the overly-controlling, nosy sibling of his best friend and lover; but is this really the time?

John comes out of his daze quickly. He gestures at the empty chair for Mycroft to sit. Mycroft doesn’t move. John tries again. “Evie Winstone, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s _big_ brother.” Sherlock grins widely at John’s little pick at Mycroft.

Mycroft resolutely ignores the gibe and holds out his hand. Evie shakes it and gives him a rather radiant smile. He can’t believe that he is going weak in the knees like some stupid teenager. “I am pleased to meet you.” He says. Though Evie sees an expression on his face that screams loudly to her that he has smelled something that must be yesterday’s rubbish.

Evie blushes deeply, the red color a nice contrast against her olive complexion. All at once she is uncomfortable again. She doesn’t belong here around these people who obviously have money running out of their ears. Who is she kidding anyway? Suddenly, the situation is falling apart around her. 

“Um. I’ve got to go.” She stammers as she casts her eyes about in panic for a way out of the kitchen. “Thank you Mr. Holmes and John for listening to my story.” She looks quickly from one of them to the other, a field mouse caught between a hawk and a feral cat. Without another sound, she races from the room. 

John and Sherlock both stand from their seats; Sherlock completely bewildered. He is wearing the John-this-is-your-jurisdiction face. John shrugs his shoulders just as the front door slams. He turns to Mycroft, his face starting to redden as his temper begins to flare to life like a match to paper.

“What the bloody hell did you _do_?” John shouts.

The tension in the room snaps like an old fan belt. Mycroft holds up both hands, the parasitic umbrella dangling off his arm. “John, you saw everything. What could I have possibly done to that young woman?” He wants to say _beautiful_ but thinks better of it. There’s no way that the Ice Man can show his cards here. He is completely at a loss as to what just happened; he'll die before he ever admits that to either one of these two. 

John shakes his head and starts picking dishes up off of the table, slamming them against the counter. Mycroft watches him for a moment and then turns to his brother. Since he is so lost about the whole scenario, he decides instead to change the subject completely. 

“I brought some more information on Wickersham…”

“Out, Mycroft.” Sherlock crosses his arms and bares his teeth in a demonstrative growl at the lone wolf.

Mycroft is too tired for this bullshit today; really, he could have just gone home, but no, he decided on an early day to come over here. “You know what, figure it out on your own. You always do. I am unsure what you two said to that young lady, but apparently it was bad enough that she ran out of here like a scared hare. What was this, anyway? Buttering her up for more intelligence?” He gestures at the remnants of an easy lunch with both hands. 

“That’s it.” John shouts. “You smug bastard. You came in here and you did _something_ that upset our _guest_. Yes, she is absolutely the last person to have seen Wickersham in a year. So, yes, we did get information from her. However, she is also a very nice person who deserves to be treated decently!” John is actually poking Mycroft in the chest with one finger. Of course, the effect is almost spoiled by the fact he has to tilt his head back to look at Mycroft. Mycroft is nothing but obliging by looking down his nose at John.

Sherlock studies them carefully, knowing full well that John can hold his own against just about anyone. Of the three of them, Sherlock knows full well what his brother is capable of; he will not allow John to get hurt. If John takes a swing at Mycroft, though, that's altogether a completely different story. 

“Captain.” Mycroft states, his voice as thick as honey, his teeth bared in a wolfish grin. John seems to come to his senses and steps back, dropping his hand down to his side, an instinctive reaction to a given order.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. She seems like such a nice kid and it upset her to talk to us. I did the only thing I know.” Sherlock is struck by how much John’s voice has dropped. He knows his lover is genuinely upset about having to draw such dark memories out of people. He goes to John and stands at his side. John doesn’t move and doesn’t take his eyes off Mycroft. Some of John's anger is begins to subside when Sherlock steps in close and rests a hand on his lover's shoulder. 

“I understand. I will leave the files for you. Perhaps I will find Ms. Winsome and apologize for interrupting what looked like a good time.” Mycroft’s blue eyes bore into John’s. He means every word he says, though John will always dislike his attitude about it. John sighs and covers his eyes with his hands. Sometimes Mycroft is as spectacularly ignorant about things as Sherlock can be. 

“Come down off your high horse, yeah?” John has been dealing with the Holmes brothers too long now to keep his mouth shut when he thinks advice is needed. Mycroft merely nods and makes his way to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe what a dumb mistake I made here, but I have corrected it and I apologize profusely! Thank you all for being so kind.


	9. Between the Dead and the Sleeping

It takes absolutely no time at all for Mycroft to catch up with Evie, mostly due to the fact that she is sitting on the low concrete wall between the parking garage and the high-rise building, crying. She has pulled her knees up to her chest and is resting her head on them, her brown hair covering her face. She isn’t making much noise; Mycroft can see that she is crying because she is trembling all over. He is now in enemy territory: a crying female.

Sure, he has dealt with females his entire life: his mother, nanny, Grandmother, his assistants, even had several lovers…but this? Evie is probably the youngest woman he has come in contact with since he graduated Uni. Still, he has dealt with terrorists, whack jobs, serial killers, injured MI-6 agents, both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson together as a force of nature…surely he can handle this.

Mycroft steps over closer to the young woman in the overalls and follows some internal Mycroftian protocol that begins when he clears his throat. It is his old standby that has seemed to work on most occasions. He fully expects her to sit up and say, well, anything really that will absolve him of any wrongdoing; at that point he can go home and possibly never set eyes about her person again. Well.

Evie merely glares at him over her shoulder, wiping her eyes with one hand; she is unsure whether to feel irritated or humiliated that he has discovered her in such distress. Having grown up in a house full of brothers, breaking down in this manner is a very rare indulgence for Evie; generally she tends to deal with her life in a much tougher fashion. She tells herself that she’s just feeling a bit overwhelmed by the old memories. She closes her eyes and goes very still.

Mycroft watches Evie get the upper hand on her obviously broiling emotions with something akin to fascination in his eyes. Though he has done the very same thing many times in his life, he has never really seen anyone else accomplish the same feat; Sherlock notwithstanding. The late afternoon sun barely gets in this far underground; what there is, however, slants across her face and makes her blue eyes glow. Something in his chest opens its wings and looks about hungrily. No, he tells himself. She, in turn, watches him, giving a tiny hiccup now and again. For once, he is completely unaware of the passage of time; it is a full five minutes before either one of them say anything.

“I don’t know who you are, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t like you.” Evie narrows her eyes and a crease appears between her brown eyebrows. For all intents and purposes she looks like a mongoose ready to strike a cobra: bite first, ask questions later.

“Ms. Winstone, I would like to apologize for whatever you perceive that I did to offend you.” There, he said it. He turns on his heels and strikes out towards where the Jaguar is parked, his thoughts moving forward. Her voice follows him. He is stopped in mid-step.

“Yeah, you look down on me like I’m a fucking cockroach. Is that really who you are?” She lays her street-smart mouth down on him thick.

In truth, neither of the Holmes boys ever really looks _down_ on anyone other than those shorter than they are. They have always been more clever and intelligent than (mostly) anyone else. Typically, Mycroft tends to think of the world as divided by criminals and pretty much everyone else. Maybe it is because he is tired and wants nothing more than to go home, maybe play a couple of rounds of racquetball and then soak in solitude for a few hours before bed. Maybe it is because Sherlock’s attitude is so overdone; or perhaps he really doesn’t want to go home and bask in solitude. Perhaps he just doesn’t like anyone attempting to perceive _anything_ about him other than what he shows them. Perhaps.

Whatever the reason, Mycroft twirls his umbrella and slowly walks back to Evie. She is sitting up ramrod straight now, her strong overall-covered body a tense line from the top of her head to her rear end that is parked on what must be a cold, unforgiving seat. He sits down next to her, completely ignoring what the rough concrete is going to do to his trousers as if trying to prove that a little dirt never really hurt anyone. She watches him carefully as he removes his tie and stuffs it into his trouser pocket. She watches as he leans forward, both hands on his umbrella, and rests his chin against his hands. She just watches him.

Maybe she has just had it with stupid people this week. Between the customer yesterday who refused to pay the five pound difference between the new part that she had in stock and the refurbished part that she had to order and then having the old memories of Wickersham pulled up like a rusting anchor from the murky bottom of the Thames, Evie has had enough of thinking about bad attitudes. This other Holmes is nothing like his younger brother and it puts her on the spot because she cannot define him.

Sherlock is quite something in the looks department, but so obviously head-over-heels for John that no one else will ever turn his head. Of course, she can’t fault him; John is adorable in a calm, safe kind of way. Mycroft has “danger” written all over him—from the cold mask he presents down to the posh shoes on his feet. She is no fool and no slag, either, but she has been around men her entire life from her brothers to the men in the shop: this one is _different_.

“So, just _who_ are you, Mycroft Holmes?” It is probably better to drop the formal stuff now, she thinks. She holds both hands out towards him, palms up towards the top of the parking garage. It is a strange gesture.

Mycroft just sits quietly studying her through his peripheral vision and considers several ways that he can answer that question; at least two of them would involve either having her _disappear_ outright or be shipped out of the country for protection; he finally lands on one that is close to the truth, but still not all of it.

“I work for the government.” He says without looking at her. He’s actually studying the motorbike that he is ninety eight percent sure is hers. None of the cars down here look like something the smoking pistol next to him would drive. He takes heart in the fact that said smoking pistol has scooted closer to him instead of farther away.

“That wasn’t my question.”There’s the soft click of a zippo being closed and the faint smell of ozone as she lights up one of the cigarettes from a pack she has pulled from her overalls. Oh. That’s why she was leaning closer. Mycroft finally turns himself to face her. She is smoking menthols and her eyes are also roving over the cars. It has been so long since he has felt the rush of nicotine. Just one shouldn’t hurt; just one he promises himself.

“See, people like you, Mycroft Holmes, cannot understand how someone like me would ever agree to go out with someone like Charles Wickersham.” Evie closes her eyes when she takes a drag, blowing the smoke out of her mouth.

Mycroft doesn’t answer, it is the truth. “May I?” He asks, instead, holding out two fingers. Her eyes widen in surprise but she holds out the pack and the lighter to him. He lights up and the first drag makes him cough, unused to the sharp sensation. He steadies himself and takes another one. His blood feels like it is slowing down. How did he ever give this up so easily?

“My god, Mycroft, you almost looked _human_ right then!” Evie gives a little cough and then laughs at him. Really laughs at him, too, right to his face.

Mycroft stares. No one since John Watson has ever dared to laugh at him. Would Red Riding Hood have laughed at the Big Bad Wolf had she known what he had done to Grandma before she arrived at the cabin? He braces himself against the handle of the brolly and considers that perhaps Ms. Winstone is a bit more brave than brainy perhaps. He also just happens to notice that her blue eyes are flecked with gold and that motor oil and other smells deriving from a life in a mechanic shop are not exactly off-putting. He has got to put a stop to these dangerous thoughts right now. He takes one last drag of the cigarette and casually tosses it to the ground where he stomps it with his uber-shiny black shoe.

“Gonna have to burn that pair now, huh?” Evie regards him thoughtfully, even having the brashness to look him up and down when he stands. Her voice would almost be playful if could not detect the hit of self-preservation in it.

Mycroft brushes off the seat of his trousers. He adjusts himself; pulling up to his full height and regards her right back, if perhaps a bit more coolly. He could almost reach down and cup that dainty chin with one hand; he wonders if she would struggle or perhaps slap his face. “Have a good day, Ms. Winstone.” Once again, he turns on his heels, perhaps a little more crisply this time, and makes for his car. Predictably, Evie doesn’t move, though he can easily discern the sound of a huff.

“You did not answer my question, Holmes.” Evie shouts, her voice echoing off the metal rafters and concrete pylons.

Mycroft is completely finished with this conversation. Part of being the persona that he has cultivated is the knowledge of when to walk away. He is completely unsure about this woman and the way she seems to be of the desire to tilt his world on its axis. Upon reaching the Jag, he stabs at the keypad with his index finger so hard that the first knuckle pops. When he finally opens the door, he tosses the umbrella across the front seat where it makes a satisfying “thud” against the passenger-side door. He starts to pull the door closed and movement in the rear-view mirror catches his eye. Evie is walking past his vehicle directly towards the Honda, a move that absolutely confirms his suspicions. Well now. He pulls out his mobile and pops it into the connector on the dash board.

He flips down the visor and puts the key into the ignition in one single movement, then proceeds to back out of the parking spot carefully. Evie nor the motorbike are nowhere in sight. He surprises himself by letting a long, warm sigh escape his lips. How ridiculous! What exactly was he hoping to accomplish, anyway? She’s easily fifteen years younger than him if he guessed her age even closely. Of course, if Sherlock’s words are anything to go by, his educated guesses are generally at least in the ballpark. Females are difficult, though, they never _seem_ to be their age: a twenty-year old woman who has had a rough life can easily come across to the world as forty and vice versa, at least in his experience. He’s no “Three Continents,” but he’s not a prude, either. He gently nudges the car forward with a light touch on the gas pedal.

Mycroft exists the parking garage, deftly waving his pass card at the monitor and waiting for the gate to open. In virtually no time at all, he is on the open highway. It’s late afternoon mid-week and there isn’t much traffic. Suddenly, the desire to just break free for a while hits him and he lets the car fly. He is zipping along at an easy 120 km/h when he is passed like he’s standing still by a blue and white streak of a motorbike; the rider is hunched down some against the chill wearing a matching helmet and light blue coveralls. Evie.

Mycroft’s first thought is that he could really make her life difficult by calling in a favor and having her written up for a speeding violation; his second thought, however, is that he hasn’t really had any fun in a while. He guns the engine and it goes from a steady purr to a roar. He takes care to stay in his lane as he pulls up alongside the motorbike. Evie spares him a quick look through the dark visor on her helmet and grins like an idiot. He sees her kick the bike into passing gear out of the corner of his eye as he watches the road. They are on a straight stretch here and the road is dry.

The white Jaguar pulls abreast of the striped Honda; it is almost as if they are flying in formation. It is when Mycroft spares a glance at the speedometer that he misses the delivery van coming towards them in the other direction. When he looks up from his split-second glance, it is too late to stop it from happening. Mycroft Holmes is a genius with many gifts and one of them is the ability to recall events in full detail and sensation with a cold, detached manner, even decades after the events take place. Along with that gift is the ability to see events happen as if they are in slow-motion.

He sees the van heading towards them. He sees the black mutt on the side of the road open its mouth and bark, although he cannot hear the animal. It gives chase to the brown van, almost colliding with the side of it. The young driver who is nodding away at what is presumably music playing in the cab, is inexperienced to all the ways of the road and with the sudden _thunk_ against the side of his vehicle hastily cuts the wheel and the van lurches sideways, crossing the line. There is the sickening sound of metal warping and safety-glass smashing. For the third time in his life, Mycroft Holmes knows fear. He stomps on the brake at the same time he’s pressing buttons on the steering wheel, making the dreaded call and shouting his whereabouts to the emergency dispatcher. Without another word, he pushes open the door and runs across the road to the horrible wreck.

The weak sunlight mocks him when it lights up the scene: gleaming, twisted metal reflects the same light back perversely that was so beautiful in a young woman’s eyes a mere hour ago. The dog is long gone, probably knocked senseless when its skull came into contact with the side of the van. The van driver is stirring and Mycroft literally has to fight the impulse to reach in through the smashed window and grab the young man by the throat. When his eyes land on Evie’s bike, however, his only thought is that he must get to her. It’s Sherlock all over again, but this time he has the ability to help.

Evie is lying on her side with one leg underneath the twisted hulk of the Honda. There is a stream of blood running down the side of her neck from somewhere underneath the helmet; the helmet itself seems to be intact. Possibly just road rash, then, Mycroft thinks. He kneels down beside her, all thoughts of the state of his trousers long past. Dirt digs into his knees and he accepts it as punishment for being foolish. He reaches out and grasps her hand, holding it caged within his slim fingers. Her coveralls are torn straight down the leg; it seems the blood from the gash there is already beginning to clot. He doesn’t touch her helmet but reaches out and softly strokes one cheek. She has gone very very pale and suddenly he wishes that this was one of Sherlock’s cases where he could remain aloof. For all that, however, she is all that he is aware of until there’s a hand on his shoulder and a paramedic asking him to step back. He nods silently and moves out of the way; his attention is soon drawn to the young van driver who is shouting to all and sundry that the person on the motorcycle pulled out in front of _him_.

Mycroft thinks that it is strange the young man doesn’t mention the black dog as he moves in slow motion towards his car that is parked in the center of the lane with the drivers’ door hanging wide open. He yanks his phone out of the blue-tooth connector and dials another number. He studies the way that the van has stopped with the passenger-side tires over the line. He narrows his eyes as he considers just how difficult this young man’s life is going to get if Evie is badly injured; there will be more than hell to pay if she never wakes up. He never stops to consider that his chosen pack has just allowed in one more member.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, all love all of you! Big virtual hugs! Every time you leave me comments, or kudos, or just stop by and check out my little meanderings, it makes my day that much brighter. Thank you!


	10. The Road I Must Choose

“John, it’s for you!” Sherlock calls in John’s direction from his thinking position that somehow involves the complicated physics of being completely prone on the sofa with his impossibly long legs and lanky bare feet draped over the arm. John’s mobile sits buzzing away on the coffee table not an arm’s reach away from him, but Sherlock will not move. He hasn’t moved from that spot since Mycroft left. He’s been so still that Phoenix climbed up and is lying stretched across his lean belly. One of Sherlock’s hands in curled around the tiny body and the other is hooked over the back of the couch. He is still dressed, at least.

“Seriously, Sherlock?” John sighs. He knows better, but some days…John lays his book and glasses down on the little café table and steps in through the doorway from the balcony. He grabs one set of long toes in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks down at the screen and almost tosses it back to the table. He’s finally been able to get into the book and has managed to keep it out of Sherlock’s reach so he won’t spoil the ending for John.

“It’s _your_ brother, Sherlock.” John says crossly.

“John, you really should read non-fiction. It was the…” Sherlock helpfully provides.

John cuts him off by answering his phone. “Yes, Mycroft.” He allows his irritation to show through his voice as he rubs Sherlock’s foot with his hand. Sherlock has closed his eyes and is stretching his foot out in a silent plea for _more_. In the instant before Mycroft tells John why he’s calling, John’s world is a perfect little cocoon that somehow involves two purring felines, well one purring feline and one purring lanky git really.

Mycroft is strangely controlled. John, however, being quite the expert in Holmes-ese can hear the strain and shock in the other man’s voice. He listens carefully and disconnects. His hand stills on Sherlock’s foot and Sherlock’s eyes fly open.

“I am actually a bit unsure what to do, Sherlock.” John puts a hand to his forehead and kneads the skin there. Sherlock is now sitting up and Phoenix has crawled to the back of the sofa and curled up. He is idly stroking her, but his full attention is now on John.

“Apparently Evie was involved in an accident a ways from here. Somehow, Mycroft saw what happened. He is at the hospital with her.” Sherlock nods. John sits down next to him and takes his hand. “There’s more, Sherlock.” Another nod. “He’s asking if I will come down and give him an expert opinion on her chances.” John swallows hard against the lump in his throat. He has known the young woman less than a day and he is already thinking of her as a friend.

Sherlock can see the pain as his lover’s playful blue eyes have become cloudy. John always makes friends quickly. Mycroft, though? This is almost unprecedented. He casts around in his mind for the answer to a question he wasn't even aware existed until that moment.

Oh.

Sherlock thinks back to that strange pause that happened in the kitchen when Mycroft first entered. Though Sherlock was busy goofing around with Evie and his attention was split between the young woman and John, his mind still took in the entire scene. He closes his eyes and watches Mycroft enter the kitchen; he sees as Evie looks up to him…Freeze. He’s captured the moment like a photograph: Evie is smiling, John is actually staring at Mycroft with his eyes popping out of his head…and Sherlock is smiling….that is not important. His eyes open and his eyebrows do their best to crawl up into his hairline. He wrinkles his nose and crinkles his eyes.

“Oh god, John. Don’t tell me. Mycroft and Evie?” Sherlock feels sick. There are some things one just doesn’t like to think about one’s brother. He covers his face with both hands.

“Grow up, Sherlock. You just replayed the whole scene in your head. What do you think?” John gets up and grabs his shoes from their place by the door. He tosses Sherlock’s in to him and gets a little satisfaction from the way that they thump against the side of the sofa.

“I don’t have any socks, John!” Sherlock calls. John just shakes his head.

~o~o~o~

Mycroft is torn between the heavy weight of guilt and the burning pain of rage. There is a terrible twisting sensation in his gut from allowing this to happen; he let his heart overrule his coolly logical mind and someone got hurt, yet again. He accepts the horrible lighting and hard plastic chair of the hospital as if it were a punishment; truly he deserves more.

The private suite is silent save for the beeping of machines and the low hum of the heater in the corner. Evie lies on the bed, one side of her face bruised darkly beneath a row of stitches that runs from her temple to the bottom of her jaw. The deep cut was caused by the way her body was dragged across the asphalt, her face rubbing against the inside of her helmet. He imagines that she is pretty fairly covered with bruises. Her leg is not only broken, but the ankle is also sprained from the twisting that occurred during her forced dismount. Her brain is safe and she will have no long-lasting internal injuries.

All of these things, Mycroft understands on a rational level. He comprehends the majority of what is written on her chart; he checked it with his personal contacts by hacking into the hospital’s records fifteen minutes after settling into the room to wait on the staff to bring her in from having X-rays, blood tests, and the stitches put in. The room décor is a sickly industrial light yellow and white paint scheme. He can’t understand for a moment how those colors are supposed to be comforting; how fluorescent lights are supposed to aid in healing. He accepts that sometimes he makes mistakes, rationally. He made quite the big one thinking that Evie is only fifteen years _younger_ than _Sherlock_. According to the hospital records, she is in fact thirty-three years old, fourteen years younger than he is; seven years younger than Sherlock and eleven years John’s junior. None of that information is important at this juncture. Why are his thoughts tripping over themselves and filling his head with useless information?

He knows why, but he doesn’t want to admit it.  

Two mistakes in one day: unforgivable. He will find a way to do penance over the accident, perhaps in time he will write off the mistake on her age.

How could he have been so ignorant?

He closes his eyes and recreates the whole scene in the kitchen before the accident all over again. In a technique reminiscent of Sherlock’s, which only makes sense since he taught his younger brother one of the skills that enables the detective to recall crime scenes with unerring accuracy, Mycroft studies Evie’s face. In his recall, Sherlock and John are no more than blurs. Evie is a crisply detailed impression; he can even make out the faint laugh lines around her eyes. Those eyes will haunt him for the rest of his life if he can never see them so bright and full of life again. He opens his eyes as he stomach gives another lurch, shooting sparks into his brain, scattering his thoughts and turning everything bright white. He has still completely failed to see what upset her so much that she fled.

Well then, that makes _three_ mistakes in one day. How could he allow that to happen?

Irrationally, he is falling to pieces over a woman whom he has known a few scant hours, and for what? Because he recognized something in her willingness to speak to him, even after a sleight, however real or imagined? The cigarette was fantastic. He turns his head in the direction of a soft whimper and knows that he wants to do _something_. He is completely lost.

For the second time in his life, Mycroft Holmes is in a situation where he _doesn’t know what to do_. He isn’t sure if staying is the right thing, but he is conflicted on where to go if he leaves. Should he just go home, write a check to the NHS to cover her expenses and be done with the whole thing? He knows that his brother and the Captain are on their way, they are more than capable of handling this situation.Then again, what if she wakes up alone?

For an instant, Mycroft is back at Sherlock’s bedside the first time his little brother wakes up from an overdose. Sherlock’s eyes are wide, terrified and lonely. He remembers the way that the jade green orbs had lost so much of their luster until they found his own. He understands that the physical pain of an injury or illness is hard enough to cope with; adding the psychic pain of being completely alone can literally crush a person from the inside out. He understands from his careful snooping that Evie has _no one_. Once her grandfather passed on, she had no other living relatives. In the hours since she was brought in, not a single person has even phoned to inquire on her condition. He would have been notified immediately.

Mycroft makes to stand when the door swings open. John comes into the room first, not quite pulling Sherlock by the hand. Sherlock stands next to John and Mycroft takes in their twined fingers. Everything comes into complete focus while he studies them, the dark of midnight and the light of midday, as if he’s never seen them before this second. His mind slows down and the urge to run away and never look back dissipates.

John notes the still figure in the hospital bed; his intelligent eyes scan the machinery, automatically checking the readouts in his head. All seems as it should be, Evie doesn’t appear to be in any added distress. Sherlock waits quietly for John to complete the assessment that he understands enough about to stay out of the way. He never lets go of John’s hand, even to the point that when John moves, he does, too. In turn, he studies his brother: the lack of a tie, crumpled clothing, the mobile lying on the chair next to him, forgotten. There is a slight ring of dirt at the bottom of his trousers above his shoes. Something akin to empathy for his sibling starts crying out in a tiny corner of his chest. He gives Mycroft what he hopes is a comforting nod over John’s head and the thing closes goes back into its normal dormant state.

The green-eyed monster rears in Mycroft’s chest again, but this time it’s different: it seems to have lost some of its bite. Now he wonders if he could learn something from these two: after all, John accepted Sherlock back into his life after what many would assume the largest betrayal of all time. Perhaps Evie can forgive Mycroft his transgressions. He follows the line of Sherlock's gaze and notes the dirt on the hems of his trousers; obviously he is not himself. How long will he allow this to continue? He weighs the pros and cons so quickly that they simply come to him as a list of words.

Right then and there, Mycroft Holmes decides that even if he doesn’t gain anything else from it, he will make Evie’s future as comfortable as he is able and that she will allow. He is no fool, he knows the scent of pride and the strength of making your own way in the world. Even if she refuses to have anything to do with him, he at least made the effort. He admits that he learned _that_ from his brother. It will be difficult to integrate another person into his life, even if she is willing, he knows. Perhaps it will be worth the trouble in the end. Perhaps.

“Mycroft, why are we here?” John asks, keeping his voice respectably low. Mycroft starts but then the expression on his face changes from haunted to the confident one that he wears day in and day out. He actually forgot about them being in the room with him.

“Thank you, John. You helped me make an important decision.” Mycroft answers firmly, never taking his eyes off of Evie.


	11. Change My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would seriously like to take the time to apologize for the fluff...but I'm not sorry, not in the least. I will only apologize if its terrible...

“Get the hell out of my room!” Evie shouts at the top of her lungs and clutches blindly at the table next to the bed. Her face is red and streaked with tears. Her trembling hand finds purchase on something big and heavy and she launches it overhand across the room, directly at Mycroft’s head. The plastic water pitcher arcs into the air, its contents a miniature torrent of rain that lands on the white comforter, the floor and straight across Mycroft’s cream colored waistcoat and dark blue silk tie, leaving a darker slash from shoulder to hip. He is stunned to find that no sound will come out of his mouth. It strikes Evie that this fool looks like a stupid fish that is unaware that it is no longer in water. She closes her mouth and stares at him, her own mouth hanging open as she struggles for breath.

The horrible lighting of the room gives her skin a green tint and for a brief moment Mycroft thinks that he is facing one of the Furies. “Evie, I….” Mycroft’s voice is a squeak when he finally finds it again. He frowns and takes two steps across the room, holding the bouquet of violets out in front of him in what he hopes is supplication.

“Don’t you DARE!” Evie snarls. Mycroft freezes and considers that perhaps looking down the business end of a sniper rifle is easier than facing an angry, injured woman whose pride he has just managed to damage by what he thought was a simple solution to her current problem. Evie’s mobile goes flying past his face; it makes a sickening smashing thud at his feet the way a watermelon would sound if he was dropped from a five-story rooftop.

“Evie, it was a logical solution. You obviously have no one to help out after you are released; my house is big enough and the staff….” Mycroft starts again, trying out his I-know-best voice and stepping carefully over the broken phone without sparing it a second look.

The look falls flat when an empty food tray flies very close to his temple and smacks against the wall with a clang. Mycroft looks down at it like it is an alien with three heads. His eyes widen and he gently sets the bouquet down in one of the empty visitors’ chairs then pretty much high tails it from the room, trying desperately not too lose too much more face. He slips out of the door and leans against it, trying to gain control of his racing heart. He rubs one hand against the metal door and then holds it up to his face: his palms are sweating! What the bloody hell! He closes his eyes and uses the door for support. There is the tiniest movement in the hallway and when Mycroft opens his eyes he is facing John Watson.

“Hrgg.” The sound that comes out of his mouth when he opens it sounds so ridiculous that Mycroft actually blanches. How does he admit how out of his depth he is here?

John cracks a sideways smile and tilts his head as if Mycroft is a new specimen of insect that Sherlock discovered on an outing and had to drag home to show John. John takes in Mycroft’s rapid breathing, the tiny beads of sweat above his upper lip and water-stained waistcoat, thinking that at least he won’t shed scales and wings everywhere. He crosses his hands over his chest, sighs and says simply: “Hmmm.” He has never been one for kicking someone when he’s down, though it does occur to him that Mycroft looks like he’s been on a three-day crash course in humility. John is just slightly too polite to say it, however he thinks Mycroft can understand anyway.

Mycroft can feel his eyes widen. It is almost impossible, but John looks so much like Sherlock at that very second: as if a shorter, lighter-haired version of his brother just appeared standing in front of him in a antiseptically scented hospital corridor. John is even wearing his own version of the Sherlockian-I-know-everything sneer. It is seriously disconcerting on top of the emotional outburst from the injured woman in the suite behind the door he is using to keep himself upright.

John clears his throat. They size each other up. Mycroft has a sudden flash of light-this is John! Three Continents Watson! Surely he can help. Now he just has to figure out how to remedy this situation without admitting that he is the one who caused it.

“Mycroft, give it up. Just tell me what you did and I will go in and talk to her.” John takes his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text off to Sherlock to let him know that John may not be able to catch up with him at the library. Sherlock is currently trying to track down a mediocre case theft and has been digging through the old stacks of microfiche since early that morning. John desperately needed a break. This, however, is certainly _not_ what he had in mind. He was looking forward to a short visit with a friend, not a run-in with an absolutely terrifying member of the government who is shaking like a junkyard dog on a short leash and wearing a _guilty as hell_ expression all over his face.

“John, I’ve….” Mycroft pauses and runs his fingers through his hair then tugs on his waistcoat. John knows those nervous little ticks all too well. It’s Mycroft’s turn to clear this throat, which he does at the same time he straightens his tie. He lets a long stream of air out of his nostrils and seriously considers trying to find someone to bum a cigarette off of. One look at John’s face, though, and he bins the idea. He is a leader, for god’s sake, and here he stands in the hallway hiding from a woman! He is seriously swinging between disgust at himself and irritation at Evie for not being able to see that his ideas are simply the best solution.

Even stranger, the angle at which he is seeing John has changed. He then realizes that he has actually slid down the door and is sitting on the floor. John doesn’t seem to be either surprised or amused. As always, John meets him on equal ground no matter where he stands, or for that matter, happens to sit. Well then.

“John, I’ve had female lovers, assistants and even enemies.” Mycroft explains. John nods and then sits down next to him. Mycroft does not take the time to be amazed, he just plows ahead. “I’m not sure what Evie is to me at this point. Friend, perhaps, or maybe the burden of guilt that rests on my shoulders is heavy enough to make me feel responsible for her welfare. I suggested that her circumstances have changed considerably in the past few days and that she should give up her little flat over the motorcycle shop. She could stay at my house; I have staff there that could help her and until she is fully recovered and able to return to her day-to-day life…” he pauses. John doesn’t say a single word. “I am more than willing to shoulder the burden of this entire state of affairs. I told her that I checked into her monthly budget and I could offer to more than cover her outstanding debts and bills…”

John holds up his hand; he has heard enough. Mycroft actually shuts up. John rubs his forehead and wonders how it is that someone so intelligent can be so very, very stupid. “Mycroft you are an idiot.”

Mycroft blinks.

“First, I am not entirely sure how you can have a single shred of guilt because Evie was in an accident. For her sake, it was actually a good thing that you showed up when you did…”

“No. I was there the entire time, John. I suggested the race.” Mycroft studies the tiles on the floor like they are the most interesting things he has ever seen. He runs his index finger in between them; the coolness of the little squares a direct contrast to the heat that is emanating from every pore in his body.

John does a double-take. He really does not have time for this. It will only be minutes before the texts from Sherlock start coming in like clockwork. All he can say to that is “ _You?_ ”

Mycroft nods, running his fingers between his neck and collar; he is pretty surprised himself.

“Alright. We can deal with that later. Let’s just clean up one mess at a time, yeah?” John suggests, his head resting against the door. He is pretty sure that he can hear Evie crying from the crack under the door and knows that the time for damage control has come. “Mycroft.” Mycroft brings his gaze back up from the floor to his brother’s lover, giving John his full attention. John has seen that look before: the one that admits nothing but positively shouts confusion. He is beginning to feel like a guru to the Holmes family in matters of the heart. He sighs as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and reads the text then quickly sends out his reply without bothering to return it to his pocket.

“Here’s what you are going to do, Mycroft. You are going to walk in there and apologize for being a horse’s arse. Then you are going to tell her that you think of her as a friend and that you are only offering to help because that’s what friends do. Let me finish.” The hand goes up again as Mycroft starts to speak. “Good. You are then going to apologize for hacking into the poor girl’s private information and _you are going to mean it_. After that, you are going to sit down with her and have a bloody real conversation about how she _feels_. Have you got that?” Captain John asks as he stands up, wiping the dust off the rear end of his jeans. He holds out one hand and Mycroft grasps it, pulling himself from the floor. “Lastly, you do not ever tell someone that you care about that their life is a _burden_ to you. Got that?” John regards him coolly, waiting on some argument from the older man as the phone in his pocket is going crazy. He shakes his head and pushes open the door. “Hi, Evie!”

She is sitting up in the bed with her own arms crossed. She is no longer crying but John can feel the tension pouring off of her in waves from the doorway. Her eyes are bright and everything about her screams “insulted!” Her hair has been pulled back in a make-shift ponytail though some of it has escaped and is hanging down over the side of her face that has the stitches. It has been three days and John can tell that the skin is still red but is not as puffy. She is healing well. He gives her a little wave with his phone. “I am going to send Mycroft back in now. Could you please not kill him too much, eh?” He gives her a huge grin and steps back. She returns the smile with a small weak one of her own. Mycroft moves past him and John reaches out and pats him on the back, just a little touch that says _you made your bed, now sleep in it_. He is receiving yet another text as he heads towards the exit.

Mycroft studies John as he walks down the hallway. John strides with purpose, without a single wasted movement, most likely still leftover muscle memory of long marches. He takes heart from it and squares his shoulders, grabs the chair with the flowers in it and drags it over next to Evie’s bed where he proceeds to apologize profusely and _mean it_.

Evie holds her ground, glaring at Mycroft, though her expression begins to soften when he tells her about his past lovers, his brother, and their parents. By the time he’s done talking, two hours have passed and she has moved close enough to him to lay one hand on his arm. She is starting to see where he’s coming from. She understands the fear that goes hand in hand with loss of control. She tells him about her grandfather, the motorcycle shop and how she was raised in a house full of brothers. As Mycroft listens, he sees many of his own fears reflected back in her eyes.

Another hour passes. Evie’s nurse comes in and checks her vitals, asks about her pain level. Mycroft goes down to the cafeteria and brings back two cups of tea and a packet of strawberry-filled biscuits. The nurse has situated the violets into the water pitcher and placed them on the bedside table. Mycroft can’t help but compare the contrast of the soft color of their petals to Evie’s eyes. For the first time, he does not berate himself for such frivolous thoughts.

They talk long into the night, until he finally becomes aware of her exhaustion. He excuses himself like a gentleman and simply cannot help it when he places a soft kiss on the top of her head. Her eyes go wide but she doesn’t say anything, only smiles as she settles back against the pillows that he straightened for her. He leaves the hospital in a decidedly better mood than he was in when he arrived that afternoon with promises that he will return in a few hours to allow her some time to rest.

Mycroft sits in his car with his phone is his hand, staring down at the screen and going over several ways that he is going to announce to his staff that he is taking some time off. After all, it has been six years since he even had an entire day off. He composes a text message and then sends it to all concerned parties, carbon-copies it to his own email and then proceeds to send it to even more important parties. Mycroft leaves the parking lot of the hospital with a much lighter heart.


	12. Miracle in My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for skipping a day on all of you wonderful readers, but I have a really good excuse. I've just posted my first all-original short story on a writer's forum for critique and I am a bit nervous about it. No matter how well or badly it does, I want to thank you all for giving me the courage to even try. Thank you, thank you!

Dr. Patel knocks lightly on the door to Evie’s room before he enters with a small stack of papers in his hand. She gives him the best smile she can muster under the circumstances; it ends in a little wince when the stitches pull against tender skin. His brown eyes are kind as he hands over the paperwork for her to sign. She is relieved to finally be able to get of hospital, though feeling a bit of trepidation due to that fact that she isn’t going _home_. She listens to what the doctor tells her about the after care for the stitches in her face, tells her not scratch underneath the cast on her leg and pretty much the rest is lost to the rush in her ears when her phone vibrates against the table next to it and she grabs it. She glances at the screen and her eyebrows crease; she pushes the delete button and looks up again at her welcoming party.

John has just entered the room pushing a wheelchair with Sherlock on his heels. He gives a brief smile in welcome to Dr. Patel and the two men shake hands. Evie notes the contrast between two shades of tan skin and her doctor’s pristine white lab coat. Sherlock watches Evie intently over John’s shoulder, his emerald hawk eyes taking in everything in a single glance. Evie meets the intense gaze with her own, having spent entirely too much time in their company over the past few days to be intimated. Her focus stills and then she searches behind them, waiting for the person that she really wants to see.

Mycroft finally appears, though he seems to freeze in the doorway; Evie takes it as an unspoken question _May I come in?_ She cannot help the real smile that plasters itself across her face when she sees him. She thrusts the papers to Dr. Patel with one hand and holds out the other towards Mycroft. He steps in closer to the bed and Evie’s hand rests against his waist. Without thinking about the audience, he leans down and places a soft kiss on the crown of her head exactly the same way he did the night that they sat here in this room and actually talked. Mycroft straights up and takes in her smile with a starving look on his face.

John studies the interplay between Mycroft and Evie; his burst of laughter is brighter than the fluorescent lighting, turning everything to gold that it touches. Evie and Mycroft both blush from the tips of their fingers to the roots of their hair while Sherlock looks from them to John with a wide-eyed expression of absolute disbelief. Naturally, this makes John laugh even harder until Sherlock huffs and drops into the wheelchair. Dr. Patel makes a short chuckle, tells Evie to take it easy and pretty much makes a break for the door before he loses his mind as apparently everyone in the room has done.

“Oy!” John shouts in between chuckles. He tips the chair as if to dump Sherlock on the floor. “That’s not your ride, you lanky git!” Sherlock frowns at John but gets out of the chair in a hurry. Evie is laughing so hard that she actually snorts. That pretty much does it and even Sherlock cracks a smile.

They finally all get control of themselves enough for Evie to get into the wheelchair. John starts to push it until Mycroft walks up behind him and says very quietly “please.” John nods his head and he and Sherlock lead the way down the corridor.

~o~o~o~

John and Sherlock are in the back of one of Mycroft’s cars, headed home. Sherlock is exception fidgety this afternoon, even for him. He scratches at his leg, plays with a loose thread on the seat, fiddles with the hair at his temples and finally resorts to playing a tip-tapping melody against the window with his fingers.

“What is wrong with you?” John asks, turning towards his fidgety detective.

“Did you see _that_?” Sherlock answers with a question of his own.

“Yeah, I thought it was kind of cute, actually.” John can’t help but smile at the memory of Mycroft being tender and caring towards another human being.

“No. Not _that_. Her phone, did you see her face when the text message came in?

Sherlock dipped his head down and scowled into John’s face at very close range.

“No, Sherlock, I am afraid I did not.” John answers honestly. He had been preoccupied by his natural inclination to check the healing wounds on her face.

Sherlock sighs one of those dramatically drawn out _you-see-but-do-not-observe_ sighs. John actually feels lucky for a few moments, it has been awhile since he was treated to one of those.

“Well, go on, you have something to say so say it.” John scowls right back.

“The text message came in just as you crossed over the threshold. She picked up the phone, looked at the screen and then immediately deleted it. It must be from someone she doesn’t know or doesn’t wish to communicate with.  I expect the latter, though I believe she knew exactly what it said because it is not the first time the person has tried to contact her.” Sherlock finishes up by opening the door.

They step out into the parking garage and John pulls his key ring from his pocket. The gold keys make a one-note jangle as he matches Sherlock’s strides. “So, obviously, you have a theory to whom the person sending the message may be.” John states as they step into the lift in unison.

Sherlock does not say anything else until they are in the penthouse. Phoenix greets them at the door by winding herself throughout Sherlock’s long legs. She is still so tiny that her head just barely reaches his shins. He pulls of his coat and thrusts it at the hook on the back of the door, then reaches down to pick up the kitten. She purrs loudly and bumps her head against his chest as he strokes her head with the other hand.

“Yes, I do.” His baritone voice seems to echo throughout the quiet flat. John knows better than to push for an answer, Sherlock will give it to him only when he decides. He has always been one to wait quietly for Sherlock’s answer; mostly anyway. John sits down on the couch and takes his shoes off. Phoenix thinks this looks like great fun and jumps down to swat at John’s shoe laces.

“You little stinker.” John picks her up and she reaches out her head; he nods his in return and Phoenix gives him a little head bump above his eyebrows. He leans into the sofa and stretches his legs out in front of him. He waits for Sherlock to speak. Sherlock does not answer straightway though, instead pulling on John’s shoulders until they are face to face, and then proceeding to kiss John’s lips, nibble a little on his earlobe and rubbing his face against Johns; he pretty much acts like a giant version of the kitten in John’s hands to get attention. John just smiles in between kisses and goes along for the ride.

Eventually, they are too close for Phoenix to be comfortable so she vacates her spot. John clutches at Sherlock’s shoulders, reeling him in for what turns out to be a fantastic but very short lived snog. When Sherlock’s phone chimes, John has one hand buried in the glorious dark curls and Sherlock has leaned down with both arms around John’s neck; their mouths are open against one another in two-four time as their hearts pound out a combined beat against their ribs. The chiming continues for another fifteen seconds until they finally pull apart with no small amount of irritation.

John leans back against the couch while Sherlock answers the call. Sherlock’s eyes narrow and then a bored expression settles in. _So much for that_ , John thinks. Sherlock’s eyes flick toward him, an argument brooking in the depths of the emerald irises. John is startled to still see a smoldering desire there, even with the interruption. Sometimes he wonders why it took all that time to realize that the heaviness of that gaze was doing more than taking him apart.

“D.I. Pritchard, an imbecilic trained chimpanzee could have seen the fingerprints in the dark.” Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes in a dramatically slow manner. John snickers behind one hand. “Yes, yes, I am sure that is very interesting. I am too busy at the moment to explain to your forensics team how to get fingerprints off of the glass light cover in the ceiling without a fuming hood. Much too busy; after all, they are your team, right?”

John can clearly hear the newest D.I.’s voice getting louder and louder. He really likes the woman, though he thinks she tends to rely on Sherlock too much. He grabs the phone from Sherlock and says simply: “Goodnight, D.I. please don’t call again until you have a real problem to solve, we are busy. Thank you!” He pushes the ‘end call’ button and then powers the phone down. After that they get back to their business of a more personal nature.

~o~o~o~

Evie is really rather enjoying the huge television in Mycroft’s sitting room. She is settled into one of a pair of large recliners with her legs up, a small stack of pillows under the cast, and a huge red bowl of popcorn in her lap. Mycroft comes through the French doors between the sitting room and the kitchen carrying two glasses: one with red wine for himself and the other with a very light rum and cola for her. She takes it from him, carefully handling the fancy glassware. She takes a sip and smiles, resting her head against the back of the chair. He sits down in the recliner next to hers and kicks the footrest up. He has removed his shoes but is still wearing thin black socks and his suit; though his tie is nowhere to be seen. He is pushing at buttons on the remote when her telephone buzzes to let her know she has a new text message.

Evie hurriedly sets her glass down and some of the drink sloshes over the edge onto the table. She mumbles “sorry” and then clicks the phone on. Since it’s the same message she keeps getting, she quickly deletes the text and then puts the phone back on the side table, face-down. She turns her head and finds herself pinned to the chair by Mycroft’s eyes. He does not say a word but he does quirk an eyebrow. She meets his gaze with her own, desperately hoping that she is giving nothing away. He has done enough for her and this is not his problem. She is hoping that if she ignores the text messages that the problem will just disappear.

Mycroft watches Evie’s face closely. Her brows knit together to form a line between them and her cheeks color up when she turns back to face him after laying the phone down. He does not break the silence but does lean in towards her. She makes no move to get away; she seems to be only waiting. When he does finally kiss her, it is a soft touching of lips. She closes her eyes and slips one hand around his shoulders, wanting to draw him in closer in that moment, even with the pressure against her stitches. Mycroft pulls away, grasping both of her hands in his own.

“You do not owe me anything. That is not my intent.” He states calmly but commanding her entire focus. She can feel the heat of his palms against the back of her hands; he is a powerful force of nature.

“I understand. The accident did not change my feelings or the way I felt about you that first day.” She blushes fiercely.

Mycroft lets go of one of her hands to brush back a stray lock of hair. “I truly do not know what to say to that.” His hand gently caresses the unhurt side of her face as he kisses her forehead, a little off center to avoid the sutures. For a moment Mycroft considers that he could simply carry her to his bed and have his way with her. He finds, however, that is very much _not_ what he wants; a very strange feeling indeed. He wants her, of that there is no doubt, but not like this when she is completely vulnerable. A strong partner is always a better match. He returns to his seat. When he settles, he pushes his hand under her arm and they proceed to spend a companionable evening watching an old American TV show about Army surgeons in Korea in the 1950’s.


	13. Part of the Fire that is Burning

Evie’s phone rings late one night a week or so later. She has had a text message every night at eleven that she has deleted. She answers the call and tries to argue quietly with the person on the other side. The caller tells her that is she does not cooperate, nasty things will happen to her new-found friends. She tries to keep her voice calm but anyone in the quiet house could hear her begging to be left alone. There is the sound of a loud burst of laughter as she pulls the phone away from her face and presses “end.”

Tears make silver tracks down her face in the dim light of the guest bedroom. She barely feels the sting of salt when her tears reach the tender wounds of her sutures. The caller’s cruel taunts dredge up old memories and fears along with the distinct and overwhelming feeling of loneliness. The ache in her leg is just another pain in the midst of so much more. It is way past time for her medication, Evie thinks as she settles back against the pillows that the housekeeper so graciously provided for her. She lets her head rest on the pink satin, the material cool against the skin of her neck. She is halfway to calling out for Mycroft in his room down the hall when she stops herself cold. Evie closes her eyes and accepts the pain as a reminder to end this trouble quickly. She sees absolutely no reason to hurt anyone else.

Mycroft is as complex and confusing to her senses as he was the first time she saw him. She had the impression a few nights ago that he wanted more from her, but then he backed off and kissed her in such a chaste manner. It has taken her all this time to get over feeling somehow _beneath_ him, and that should be chalked up to the way he does not treat her any differently from anyone else around him. Except for his brother, though she figures whatever it is between them is like a tradition and nothing is ever going to change it. In turn, she is beginning to notice that his calm, confident manner is actually lifting her up. It is a silly school-girl  fantasy to have a man that simply exudes self-reliance; someone to look up to, but it still lives in her mind. Once again, she is on the cusp of calling out to him, just to take her mind off of the nasty call.

No. Not now. She once again fights it all back down and swallows the fear like the bitter pill it has become. She feels like she is lying but she can deal with this herself. Maybe if she deals with this on her own she will be permitted to get closer to him: she can be strong. She thinks that may be why he pulls back and leaves their physical interactions to simply kissing. She attempts to persuade her mind to consider the good things that go along with simply being close to another human being, yet she hears the caller’s voice over and over; this time she cannot control the flood of tears, though she does hold the soft lilac-colored duvet to her mouth to stifle as much of the sound as possible.

Mycroft stands with his back against the wall, putting two and two together and coming up with three. He knows about Evie’s short-lived time with Wickersham and knows that she has only had two long-time relationships in her life. Someone is stalking her and he needs to take care of the problem. He knows exactly where to begin. He turns away, torn between going in and comforting her and just melding back into the shadows to do what he does best. This time, logic wins. He cannot hope to give her any comfort until he can put a stop to the problem. He believes that since she has not yet come to him that she doesn’t need him. He has not yet learned how wrong he is.

~o~o~o~

It is just after breakfast the next morning. John is sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop typing up the case that he has titled _Mediocrity on Microfiche_ on his blog. Sherlock and Phoenix are out on the balcony with a stack of forensics journals and textbooks. John adjusts his glasses with one finger and continues his hunt-and-peck typing, which has only gotten slightly better over the years: now instead of one finger, he uses two.

Sherlock is stretched out against the wooden floor of the balcony, his back against the overhang, legs crossed in front of himself at the ankles. He has a journal spread open in his lap to a rather humorless diagram of the steps of rigor mortis in humans. He is completely engrossed in an article that is written by one of the scientists from the Body Farm in the US. Phoenix is in a similar position beside him; two cats soaking up the scant rays of this morning’s autumn sunshine. When his mobile chimes a new text message the first time, he completely ignores it. By the third chime, Phoenix raises her head and gives him a look that clearly says he is allowing it to interrupt her very important sun worshipping. He gives her a little glare and yanks the thing out of his soft blue pajama bottoms.

_Are you any closer to finding Wickersham?_

John is jolted out of recounting a quite enjoyable foot chase from the library when Sherlock growls from the balcony. The anger of being reminded that Sherlock has been unable to pick up Wickersham’s trail is almost palpable, even from this distance. Charles has eluded them for weeks. John is aware of how the hunt for the arsonist has pervaded Sherlock’s mind like a cancer, even more so because he is _dull_ and not really worth all the time.

John calmly strolls to the open door. He can feel Sherlock’s anger as it begins to boil beneath the surface. Sherlock is using his index finger to stab at the buttons on his phone. He holds it up to his ear as a deep growl reverberates from his throat and completes itself in a huff of air. His green eyes are bright and calculating.

“The text messages are from Charles.” He states these six words without preamble.

John cannot hear what Mycroft is saying. He thinks it may be something to confirm Sherlock’s suspicion when Sherlock’s eyes close and his brow furrows. John shoves his hands down into his jeans pockets and waits. Sherlock hangs up without hearing another word his brother speaks and looks up to John.

“Charles Wickersham has been sending text messages to Evie since she first went to hospital. Apparently, he had the gall to call her late last night.” Sherlock frowns again and his mouth turns down at the corners; little wrinkles form across the bridge of his nose. He does not pause before giving John an answer to his unasked question. “He is using different phones, though the messages are always exactly the same. Mycroft has attempted to locate him on three separate occasions. So far, the only evidence of his whereabouts that Mycroft’s team has found has been an old mobile deep in a rubbish bin not far from the motorcycle shop.”

John shakes his head. That makes even less sense. “Whose attention is he after? Ours or Evie’s?”

Sherlock has a very-out-of-character look of confusion on his pale features. The whole escapade is getting under his skin. He pushes up off of the floor, a move that dumps the journal to the floor with a thud and walks from one end of the balcony to the other, a total of about four steps each time. At each of the two corners he can get to, he executes a neat little pirouette on his bare toes.

“It is driving me mad! I cannot discern his motives! Killers, kidnappers, thieves...even Mycroft, I understand…arsonists make no sense!” Sherlock shouts, pressing his thumbs to his temples. John thinks he looks every bit the wild-eyed scientist desperately seeking answers to all of life’s perplexing questions. Of course, he knows full well that to Sherlock, the majority of human nature is life’s most perplexing problem.

 


	14. Burning in its Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence, death and crime scenes.

_Meet me at Arthur’s shop. 1:30 PM. After that, I will leave you alone._

Evie stares at the text message. Seeing her grandfather’s name seems to upset the balance of strength that she has been upholding; she is trembling and goose bumps have broken out on her arms and the back of her neck. Waves of hot and cold are crashing over her, threatening to drown her with despair. Evie tries to settle herself by thinking about the good things.

Dr. Patel gave her the okay to move around on crutches and yesterday her stitches were removed. She is feeling overwhelmingly sore but she is also beginning to believe she’s going to go and meet Wickersham at her grandfather’s motorcycle shop. She is thinking that this all has to end sometime. She absentmindedly rubs at her face where the still-healing wounds itch.

Evie pushes herself forward out of the recliner that she has come to like _entirely_ too much in her stay here at Mycroft’s house. She sets her phone back on the side table as she carefully balances on the crutches; each time is getting easier and this time she wobbles just a little as she moves down the hallway. At the front door she takes the time to listen for any noises, glad that she managed to get her trainers on, especially over the new, smaller cast. She grabs a denim jacket off of one of the hooks and slides her arms into it, taking it in turn to balance against one crutch at a time.

She opens the door and faces the butter-cream yellow of the afternoon sunshine. The warmth reaches out to gently caress her face, touching every single tender spot that was torn and then sewn together. Sometimes she thinks of herself as a patchwork quilt: so many differing pieces of material—some earned, some purchased, some borrowed and some received as gifts—sewn together in a line down the side of her face. Dr. Patel has assured her that there will only be minimally scaring. She has to remember to ask John about it, she has more faith in his advice about scars and long-lasting pain.

Evie moves down the short walk that winds in geometric precision around the side of the house, the metal crutches thumping against the concrete; the sound changes as she reaches the smooth asphalt: now instead of _thump,_ the crutches make a click against the asphalt. Satisfied that there is no one around paying her any attention, she rapidly types in the security code that opens the garage door. She taps her foot against the ground as she waits for the door to complete its circuit. Once it is open, her eyes gaze hungrily at the pair of stunning motorbikes standing side-by-side, beckoning her to climb aboard. The keys are easily obtained from their place on a hook by the door. Last night, after she had been given the lighter cast and the crutches, she and Mycroft had spent a short time walking around the house. It felt good to exercise and she was fascinated to see that he shares her love for fast machines.

For one instant only, she thinks what a really stupid idea this is.

She briefly reconsiders; there is no other way that she will ever have any peace. She needs to go and see what this bastard wants and then perhaps Mycroft will have a reason to look at her as more than a _ward_ , more than a guest in his home. She will never be able to look into those eyes and want anything less than _equal_. She takes a deep breath and slides over onto the sapphire blue bike. The hard part now becomes what to do with the crutches. Evie looks at them, calculating the distance between here and the shop and then the distance between the parking lot and the front door at the shop…wait a minute. She can actually pull right up to one of the entrance doors and from there swing off and into the shop. Surely she can manage fifteen steps or so on her own, she thinks. She nods to herself as she covers her head with the helmet hanging off the handlebars. She plants her cast on the pedal so that only the toe of her trainer is touching against the metal. It will have to do. Evie leans down and starts the bike, easily exiting the garage due to the absence of Mycroft’s white Jag.

~o~o~o~

Evie’s plan seems to be a smashing success. She pulls right up to the side door of the garage and cuts the engine. The motorcycle is an amazing ride; it felt so good to be out on the road again. She lets the little nagging feeling of guilt just hang out in the back of her mind where it can be ignored; it is pretty idiotic for a 33-year-old woman to be stealing vehicles like a teenager…but this will all be over soon and her grandfather always said that the ends justify the means.

She staggers a little upon the dismount, still landing on both feet, if not very gracefully. She steps in close to the brick wall, using it for support as she limps towards the side door. Evie never notices the lack of activity around the shop; nor does she notice the deserted parking lot.

She makes it through the unlocked side door and has to lean up against it for a moment to catch her breath. After a short round of positive self-talk she moves towards the open shop floor with its neat rows of toolboxes all around. The lighter cast is starting to get heavy and Evie is beginning to tire, her adrenaline-fueled race to the shop starting to wind down. She keeps one hand flat against the wall and takes another step, thinking that Mycroft is going to be really angry when he finds out what she’s done; there is no doubt in her mind that he will find out. After all the other information he managed to dig up about her. She really needs to have a talk with him about that at some point.

None of it matters because suddenly she is on the floor. She hits the concrete on her knees. She does not scream out when suddenly Charles Wickersham is standing over her with a heavy silver wrench that he apparently just used to trip her. There is dried blood on his hands and he is panting like an animal. His short brown hair is sticking up all over the top of his head. She tries to push herself away from him and he raises the wrench, making as if to bash her bad leg and she freezes like a rabbit with a bobcat bearing down on it. Like the rabbit she has absolutely nowhere to go. In slow motion, she sees him go through with the motion, the head of the wrench catching her in the thigh. It hurts bad enough to make her see stars but she knows nothing is broken. She grunts with the pain but does not cry out. She will not give him that satisfaction.

He remains silent as he throws the wrench to the floor where it spins until it runs out of energy. By that time, Charles has Evie’s arms pulled behind her back and he is half-pulling, half-carrying her across the shop. She struggles against his hold but the slap across the back of the head she receives makes her stop. Some of the just-barely healed nerves on her face spring return back to life with heat. She finally hangs her head, her hair hanging falling down to hide the tears rolling silently down her face.

~o~o~o~

Mycroft arrives home at exactly two o’clock. He was instantly on alert when he pulled into his open garage. Though he will never admit it to anyone, he was nervous when he pushed open the unlocked front door. He began to panic when he could not find Evie, thinking that some of his own enemies kidnapped her. He is now positively livid. He snatches her phone off of the side table and flips through the text messages, reads the one from Wickersham at the same time he is firing off a text to his brother from his own mobile. He is practically flying through the house, tossing his suit aside and grabbing a pair of jeans, a black turtleneck, boots and a handgun from his bedroom. He leaves the house at a run, pausing only to grab a heavy black leather jacket from the hook behind the door.

At the garage he is torn between taking the car or the other motorbike. Considering that speed is his only option at this point, he mounts the machine, feeling the weight of the gun against his back where he shoved it into the waistband of his jeans; a little trick he learned a long time ago. He shrugs into the heavy padded jacket, deftly zipping it. His dark blue eyes are fierce with intent. Mycroft kicks the bike to life and follows Evie, slowly building walls in his mind so that he can deal with one problem at a time.

~o~o~o~

“John! John!” Sherlock rushes through the front door of the penthouse brandishing his phone like a sword. The door slams behind him with a crash that reverberates through the whole place. He is out on the balcony, again trying to update the blog. Phoenix is helping out by lying across the keyboard on his laptop. John is half tempted to take a picture of the cat and post it along with an excuse as to why he hasn’t updated it.  Sherlock has just returned from being out doing whatever the heck he does that involves wandering the city. In all these years, John has never quite figured it out, though he believes it is how Sherlock keeps his mental map of all of the streets and alleys of London fresh in his mind.

John looks over his glasses at his tall, gorgeous lover who is now taking up the entire doorway between the sitting room and balcony. Sherlock’s expression is both stormy and deeply interested.

“A case?” John asks over the rim of his lenses.

For a second, their eyes lock and in that tiny droplet of time John knows there’s more. He is up and moving before the words even roll off of Sherlock’s tongue.

“Evie received another text message from Wickersham. We have to get to the shop. Mycroft says to get your gun.”

~o~o~o~

“You stupid, foolish cunt!” Wickersham shouts as he slaps Evie’s face again. She has just managed to launch a kick directly into his face when he knelt to secure her bindings to whatever it is she is lying on. He tears her mind from unconsciousness, surely a result of however he managed to make her nose bleed; she has no memory of it at this point. He sits back on his knees, both hands over his face. He pulls them back to see that there is no blood and a loud burst of maniacal laughter streams from his throat. Evie tries to pull her arms away from the duct tape that is holding her down and finds it to be quite effective.

Evie takes in a deep breath, trying to think of a way out of this mess. No one has any idea where she is; Mycroft thinks she is at his house, soaking up luxuries and convalescing. Her tears are falling heavier now, though she is still not making a sound.

“Oh, Evie, why did you say “no” to me that night?” Charles leans down and looks into her face, his tongue carefully tracing across the top her cheek. She has no presence of mind to even spit in his face, because as soon as she opened her mouth to do so, she could smell the disconcerting mix of smoke and motor oil. He pushes in closer, staring into her eyes as if searching for something. How can someone so young have eyes that are such dark pools of nothingness?

“I’ve been trying to get the great detective’s attention for several months now and here you go and just waltz right into the Holmes’ boys lives! Three cheers for me!” His voice is scratchy, raw with excitement. Wickersham moves away from her, clapping his hands three times in succession; each clap sounds like a gunshot in the silent room. She loses sight of him for a few moments but she can hear a faintly terrifying splashing sound and smell the petrol as he pours it on the floor. Oh god.

“Two birds, one stone.” He says, not taking his attention off of his pouring. He is holding one of the large red plastic containers and is walking around splashing it all over. He finishes one line and pulls a gold lighter out of his pocket. Evie recognizes it as her grandfather’s.

“No!” She shouts, finally breaking her vow of silence. Charles laughs.

“Oh, girlie, you recognize this, do you? The only thing Arthur had that was worth anything. If that damned Tommy hadn’t taken over the shop when he did, it would be pushin’ up daisies, same as dear old granddad.” Charles smirks, his mouth a hard and cruel line against his flushed skin. He holds the lighter up and flicks it, a silent mockery of the Olympic torch-bearer. She cries out again as he bends down and lights one of the lines of petrol.

Evie closes her eyes at the whooshing sound of the petrol being claimed by flames. When she opens them again, she can see how the flames dance and sway though they are not close enough to her to feel the heat. Wickersham laughs hysterically as he jumps up and down, clapping his hands that are red and chapped from handling such corrosive materials.

Charles looks down at his hands and follows Evie’s line of sight. “Oh girlie, it is not going to matter here shortly. You and me, we are going to be together _forever_.” His voice drops on the last word and he narrows his eyes. Evie can do absolutely nothing as he lights the second line. Another angry, growling sound and the flames are closer.

“You and me, Evie. You and me.” Charles actually dances around in some strange little two-step, sliding the soles of his work boots against the floor. What Evie cannot see is that he is actually spreading the fuel between the lines as he is moving closer to her.

“This is it for me, sadly. I’ve done something even that little Irish fruit could never do! I have made my masterpiece; I struck the amazing Sherlock Holmes down by bringing his home down around his ears!”

What? Evie wonders if she’s heard right. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. “You killed Sherlock Holmes?”

Wickersham steps away from the flames that he is now studying as if they were a lover, turning his empty gaze onto her face. “Yes I did. I’ve been studying him and Moriarty since I was fourteen; I know _all_ about their face-off on the roof of that hospital. The way the brilliant criminal made a plan so clever that Sherlock was _never_ going to get out of it…BUT THEN HE DID!” Charles roars and throws the plastic container in the direction of the flames. They lick at it tentatively, hungry living things seeming to decide they like it; there is a loud boom when the container gives up to the searing heat.

Evie is well and truly frightened now.

~o~o~o~

Mycroft is first on the scene. He can see the flickering flames through the windows of the shop. He cuts the engine to the motorcycle at the end of the parking lot so as not to draw any attention to himself. Wickersham is in there. Mycroft moves slowly towards the front door of the shop; he pulls on the door and finds it unlocked. Before stepping over the threshold, he sends a text message to Sherlock letting him know which side of the building he is checking out first.

The front door leads to a small, neat lobby with a counter that runs alongside one wall. Posters of cars and motorcycles line the wall above a short row of chairs. There is a small water cooler in the corner and a tiny television on a stand. This room is empty. He steps behind the counter, noting the stacks of invoices and other paraphernalia needed to run a business like this daily.  Satisfied that there is nothing amiss here, he then goes into the short hallway where the restrooms and the manager’s office are located. He cannot see anything behind the opaque glass of the office and so he draws the gun from his jeans and holds it out in front of himself while he opens the door.

The door swings inward and then stops abruptly. Mycroft freezes as he scans everything at eye level and above. There is no sound, only the hum of the computer on the desk. Finally, he sees what is blocking the door when he steps through it and looks down at the floor. It is a body, burnt almost beyond recognition of being human. His blood begins to boil.


	15. Safely Lead Me Through

Evie cannot take her eyes off of Charles. He is standing in the center of the flames with his hands outspread and his head thrown back. He is laughing. She flinches when he leans down again and she can barely make out the sound of the cap of the lighter flicking open. More flames leap into life. Charles laughs again and moves towards her. She cannot understand how the flames keep getting closer and closer without actually touching her. Sweat drips from her forehead into her eyes and a small whimper escapes from her lips at the salty burn.

Then he is there by her side, then, running his hands over her face, over her body and down her arms. “You and me, babe, together forever!” He whispers conspiratorially into her ear. She shudders and he is gone again and this time she cannot hear the lighter but she makes out the crackling sound of another line of fuel igniting. She closes her eyes and waits for it all to end, listening to the thrum of her own heartbeat in her ears. 

~o~o~o~

“This way, John.” Sherlock leads the way around the shop to the side door. He notes Mycroft’s motorcycle standing beside the brick wall; in his mind he can see every step Evie took from the time she dismounted until the time she crossed the threshold into the shop. John stops him from moving forward by grasping the back of Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock spins around but John holds up one hand. He points behind his back with the other. Right. John’s got the gun.

John smoothly takes his place in front of Sherlock and pushes open the door. Sherlock lays one broad palm across it and keeps it open so that John can hold his gun in front of him with both hands. John immediately lowers his body under the black smoke that is rolling towards the now-open door. When Sherlock attempts to follow him walking uprights, John reaches up and yanks on Sherlock’s coat.

“Get down, you idiot. Under the smoke. Don’t you know about basic fire safety?” John snorts.

“Must have…” Sherlock starts.

“Deleted it.” John finishes.

Even though it is late afternoon, the interior of the shop itself is dim save for the flicker of orange and scarlet. John moves towards it, crouched down with Sherlock close enough to breathe on John’s neck. John can almost feel Sherlock’s heart pounding out a staccato rhythm to match his own. John stops in the entry way and Sherlock crouches down beside him to take in the situation.

What they see is horrifying.

~o~o~o~

Mycroft turns away from the body in the office and enters the hallway that opens up to the opposite side of the shop from where his brother and John are crouched. He places one hand under his nose and tries desperately to forget the smell of charred flesh as he crouches towards the floor. With each step closer to the shop he the angry sound of crackling fire and the smell of petrol get stronger. Mycroft stops in the entry way of the shop and notes Sherlock’s and John’s relative positions to his own. They both seem to be on guard and so Mycroft allows his eyes to follow the direction of his line of sight.

Indeed, what is in front of them is a horrific sight to behold.

Wickersham has constructed a platform of sorts out of wooden skids. There are at least five of them in a sort-of pyramid shape. Evie is strapped down to the topmost one and Mycroft can see that her eyes are tightly shut. He steps forward and notes that Sherlock and John do the same.

Mycroft trains his gun on the man in the center of the flames.

Sherlock hangs back for a moment, letting John and Mycroft lead the way. He sees everything in crisp detail and slow motion.

Wickersham has doused himself with petrol and his clothing is on fire. He is moving closer to Evie as if wading through deep water, loud, insane laughter belting from his open mouth with every step. Evie is flat on her back on the top of the wooden mountain and Sherlock notes the sweat on her forehead.

Charles has crafted six concentric circles of flame and they wave about him like subjects paying homage to a god. As Sherlock watches, Wickersham’s hair catches fire and now he is fully ablaze, still laughing and moving towards Evie. Evie’s eyes have opened and she is screaming, the sound going through Sherlock’s head like a hot knife through butter.

John feels more than sees Mycroft move up alongside him. He makes a quick double-take upon seeing Mycroft not only armed, but holding the weapon steady even in the midst of this inferno. Mycroft’s gaze is only for Evie. They are unison and for a moment, John is back on the battlefield even more so than he has been for years. They watch as Wickersham’s hair begins to smoke and then he is a moving pillar of fire. When Evie begins to scream, Mycroft begins to run and John freezes.

John waits until Mycroft has reached Evie. Wickersham turns towards Mycroft and John keeps the insane arsonist in his sight. Wickersham reaches out for Mycroft as if to allow the dancing flames to jump to another human being. John Watson is not going to allow that to happen. Everything slows down to this single moment: he knows full well for all of his level-headedness and calmness now, there will be hell to pay later. He pulls the trigger and Wickersham goes down. At the same time that the bullet leaves John’s gun, there is a loud BOOM and the floor shakes.

Like every other machine shop in the world, this one was equipped with tanks of petrol and motor oil. Wickersham had cleaned the majority of them from the open floor plan, though he missed a few of the smaller containers, such as hydraulic oil and the kerosene used for cleaning tools. It’s the kerosene tank that has gone up this time, with enough force that it blasted through the roof. Flames are now licking hungrily at the old shingles.

The entire building is an inferno, completely oblivious to the four human beings that will soon be trapped inside of it.

Sherlock and John wind their way through the long lines of flames. Mycroft was lucky that when he ran straight through he followed Wickersham’s own path and he is only covered in the oily residue of burning petrol. Mycroft seems cool under pressure, but when he turns towards John, John can see rage in his eyes; and something much more dangerous. 

“We need to get out.” John says over Evie’s screams as he draws up alongside Mycroft. Her eyes are open though she does not seem to recognize any of them nor her surroundings. He takes in the situation and thrusts his gun back into the back of his jeans with a steady hand. “If we are careful, the three of us should be able to lift her up.” For once, Mycroft and Sherlock do not argue with him or each other. They move towards the center of the skid and shoulder it like pall bearers. John, being just below the level to lift the skid, puts both hands flat underneath and steadies it so as not too jar Evie any harder than necessary.

They start out the way that Mycroft came in. “No.” He shouts. “That’s the office, too much paper.” They turn towards the side door but are blocked by flames. For a moment they are unsure. John searches the shop with his eyes until he notes the wrench that is lying against one of the metal toolboxes. The flames are reflected back from its shiny surface, even through the heavy black smoke. It is getting harder and harder to breathe. He rushes towards it and grabs it, never even considering that the temperature in the room is close to broiling. He goes to the keypad for the big door and smashes it with the wrench. Though an alarm goes off, the door does begin to open.

Sherlock knows exactly what is going to happen as soon as a nice big breath of fresh air reaches the flames that are only a few meters behind them. It is going to be a big gust of fuel. He and Mycroft exchange looks and they get as close to John as possible. The door begins to raise and the flames behind them are like orange and gold and scarlet monsters reaching towards the air, greedily searching for more fuel to keep them alive. The door is open almost a meter when Sherlock uses his free hand to shove John underneath it. John instinctively drops to one shoulder and rolls under the door. 

As one, Sherlock and Mycroft drop to their knees and scoot under the door, keeping their torsos upright and Evie safe. They do not speak nor do they look at each other as they stand and step off, moving as quickly as possible as far away from the burning building as they can get with their burden. When they finally stop, John is amazed at the way the two tall men moved through the smoke so easily. When they finally set the skid down on the ground, Sherlock steps away from them and leans over, coughing and hacking. His eyes meet John's from behind Mycroft's back and John can see the strain behind his lover's eyes. He takes in Sherlock's dishelved appearance, rapid breathing and the streaks of soot covering his face, hands and jeans. He knows that he looks similar, though his hands are trembling, just slightly. John cannot see Mycroft's face, though he is on his knees next to the skid, talking to Evie and stroking her arms. Her eyes are open, her face wet with tears. John can see all of the signs of shock and the strain of being so close to a cold-blooded killer. He is pleased to see Mycroft's reactions: focusing more on keeping her calm than worrying with her bindings. They are all alive. 

By the time emergency services arrive to the scene, Evie is no longer strapped to the skid but folded into Mycroft’s arms, her face resting against his shoulder, sobbing. The switchblade that Sherlock had hidden deep in his mysterious coat made quick work of the duct tape. He is sitting on the ground on the other side of the street from the shop, his ash-covered legs out in front of him. Sherlock and John stand behind him and John thinks how appropriate it is when the first rain drops hit his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost to the end, loyal wonderful readers. I believe there shall be one more chapter after this...I can't leave you all hanging and wondering what happens, can I?


	16. Secrets of Our Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: people who love each other having sex. If you don't like smut, stop reading now. (As if, right?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for staying with me! THIS is the chapter that I wrote right after Evie decided to get into this story, I apologize for prolonging it! I can only hope I did it justice.

_It is several months after the fire at Arthur’s motorcycle shop. They have all gone to Tommy’s funeral, wrote out their statements and even took part in the official inquest. With Mycroft’s, John’s, Evie’s and Sherlock’s statements, the ‘Yard was able to close the case: ascribing the fires of the shop and 221 Baker Street to Wickersham. It’s all pretty drawn out and boring, so let’s get back down to the fluff, shall we? These four people have been through enough in the past few months that it is time for them to get a break._

_Christmas has come and gone, and can you believe it? Sherlock was actually pleasant. (John thinks he respects Evie because she is able to withstand Mycroft’s bullshit the way John does Sherlock’s, but that is seriously another story for another day—perhaps.) This story was started as nothing but some fluff to make myself feel better and dear gods, oh look! There’s a plot. It has gone places it was never meant to go! So, dear readers, I shall leave them to it. Let’s just start by imagining that they are all relaxing in the back garden at Mycroft’s home, just as spring is breaking through and let’s all take a moment and return to the fluff and the romance and rejoice in the fact that both Holmes brothers have been permitted to live via their rather patient better halves; besides it's time for something more positive and what can be more so than the reaffirmation of love?_

* * *

Spring returns in tiny bursts of green. New grass the color of Sherlock’s eyes is pushing upward from the rapidly warming earth towards the heat of the sun. The air is cool enough for jackets and light jumpers, though nothing can dampen the feeling of hope that permeates the world in this moment as it rests on the cusp of bursting forth with life. Evie sits in the padded metal chair with her denim-clad legs stretched out in front of her, bare toes moving slightly against the weathered stone of the patio; enjoying the warm sunshine, even if it is a little weak. Absentmindedly, she scratches at a spot on her cheek; sometimes she can still feel the rough texture of the suture there. She never takes her eyes from the novel in her lap. She isn’t ashamed of her scars, nonetheless she blushes when she notices out of the corner of her eye that John is watching her.

John sits opposite Evie, his glasses perched on his nose and the contents of an official-looking manila folder spread out in front of him. He is looking over the rimless lenses with a piercing gaze reminiscent of a Holmes. Evie smiles back, the brown hair in her ponytail falling down over her shoulder as she turns her head to follow his movement.

“Evie, you have nothing to worry about. Those scars will fade with time.” John states as he takes his glasses off and lays them on top of the folder. He pushes the chair back away from the table and then stands to stretch his legs. He walks around the table and gives Evie a pat on the shoulders. She reaches up and grasps his hand. “They aren’t that bad now that you have been able to get out into the sun a little, still, you should think of them as your pearls.” He gives a fond fatherly lop-sided grin that she can hear but not see.

“Thanks, John.” John nods his understanding of much deeper gratitude. He slides the back door open and steps into the house. Evie returns to her novel and her sun worshipping. A light breeze swirls around here, lifting the strands of hair across her forehead and giving her a soft, pleasing kiss against the tender skin of her face.

It is a few moments before she hears voices behind her as the door slides open: John’s quiet burr, Sherlock’s baritone purr, and Mycroft’s well-enunciated clip; all three of them talking at once.

“Look, Mycroft…” There is the hint of laughter in John’s voice.

“That is quite pedestrian, Mycroft…” Sherlock’s voice behind her is a low rumble.

“You two, stay out of it. She will quite enjoy it.” Mycroft sounds harassed and most likely actually is.

Then there is a pair of hands over her eyes and the click of a lighter. Before the words “Happy Birthday” come out of anyone’s mouth, everything around Evie begins to spin and she blacks out completely to the vision of Charles Wickersham’s face swimming above her.

Sherlock is directly behind her chair and so he catches her before she can slump to the ground. John helps him gently lower her to the cool patio where he pushes her so that she is sitting up with her face on her knees.

“Here, Mycroft.” John points behind Evie and Mycroft settles himself on the ground at her back. John gives him the stern look of a Captain used to having his orders followed, waiting for Mycroft to say a word about his suit trousers. Mycroft does not say anything, merely rubs Evie’s back as she begins to come around.

In the mean time, Sherlock has removed the gold candle from the center of the blue and white butter cream icing. The lighter gets folded into one of his pockets. John looks up from where he is taking Evie’s pulse and frowns. Sherlock gives him the most innocent expression he can plaster across his face in that moment then thinks better of it, grins and mouths “come and get it.”

John actually snorts and when he turns back to what he was doing, Mycroft and Evie are both staring at him. John can almost hear Evie’s “awww…so cute” and Mycroft’s “Too much information” in those expressions. He just shakes his head. He knows full well what just happened and will not ask if Evie doesn’t offer. Instead he holds out his hand and helps her up from the ground whilst barking out an order for Sherlock to get her a glass of water.

~o~o~o~

“Thank you for the birthday cake, Mycroft.” Evie states as she turns off the faucet in the gigantic bathtub. She stretches out against the smooth white surface and closes her eyes. The warm water is wonderful against her freshly shaven legs. There are bubbles as high as her collar bones and she is all but hidden beneath them. Mycroft stands in the doorway and enjoys the sight of his lover’s olive complexion against the brightness of the bubbles. He closes the door behind him and drops his robe to the floor before slipping into the water opposite Evie.

“You are so much more than welcome, Evie.” Mycroft reaches out to her lovely shoulders and tugs gently, turning her around so that her back is against his chest. She leans against him, remembering the motorcycle ride they took after Sherlock and John left; her body squeezed up against his back and her arms tight around his waist, gently brushing the front of his trousers with one hand. She remembers before that when she stuck her finger in the icing and Mycroft leaned forward and licked it off before she had a chance to react. She shudders at the memory of his hot tongue probing the bottom of her finger; those thin lips usually held so stiffly turning red with the blush of desire filling them.

Mycroft runs his hands down Evie’s naked torso, fondling each breast in turn in his big hands. She sighs and pushes against him, a startled sound escaping her lips when she feels his erection against her ass. “Well, hello, Mr. Holmes is that a sword or are you glad to see me?” A girlish giggle punctuates her words as she turns around to face him, coyly watching for his reaction underneath long, dark eyelashes. She studies his pale skin, one finger tracing a line of freckles spattered against the muscles of his chest.

He does not answer, instead placing two fingers under her chin and tipping her head slightly before dipping his own and kissing her fully. He gives her soft brushes of his lips on each cheek and then presses her forehead against his mouth with one hand on the back of her head. She sighs as he moves back to her mouth, parting her lips for a gentle but demanding tongue. Mycroft hauls Evie in closer to himself as they kiss, he can fully feel the heat from her body against his own arousal. He slides one hand down to the nape of her neck as her hands go around his neck, her own hands grasping then releasing in time with their kiss. She thinks that she could follow him from heaven to hell and never be disappointed.

Evie adjusts herself until she is on her knees; now they are at eye level with each other. They pull back, dark blue eyes gazing deeply into light blue ones. In a whisper that makes the sound of butterfly wings as it takes its sustenance from a rose, Mycroft Holmes proclaims in their shared breath “Evie, I love you.” To Evie it sounds like he has shouted it from the top of Big Ben. She smiles and he falls even deeper into the sparkling azure sea before him. It all makes sense now, all of it. Though there will be some things she will never know about him, _this_ is what she needs; what she has needed her entire life.

“I love you, too.” A sharp intake of air as Mycroft hears the words that have been missing from his own life; he has been looking for this piece of the puzzle for so long without ever realizing it was lost. He grins back at her and it is her turn to feel nothing except overwhelming happiness clutch at her heart. She kisses him back and soon they are pulling at each other’s naked, wet skin, desperate for that final contact to complete the pact that have made between them with those eight words.

Mycroft’s hands travel to grasp Evie’s buttocks, pulling her upward. She arches her back and holds the base of his erection as she lowers herself onto him. They both gasp loudly when he enters her, and again as she rises up. He bucks his hips forward, water and foam sloshing over the side of the tub in a cascade as the rocking motion gathers momentum. He lets go with one hand and allows her to take over, the heat and moisture from her smoothly shaven sex pushing them both toward a shared climax. He slowly lets his hand rest between them, moving them apart enough to place his finger against her clit, stroking the hot little bud in time with each one of her thrusts.

When Evie climaxes, she throws her head back and then it falls forward against his shoulder. Her hands do not leave his shoulders. She shudders and bites at his neck as his hands move, one to cup a hip and the other to the small of her back so that he can now meet her thrusts with his own. When Evie starts feeling Mycroft’s balls tighten against her smooth lips, she wolfishly bites down on his neck and he growls his way through his own orgasm. More water splashes out of the bathtub in a joyous cascade of the celebration of two people finding the one thing that their lives have been without.

~o~o~o~

John practically pulls Sherlock from the lift. Sherlock pulls back until they are pressed up against one another in the hallway in front of their door. Their lips are tight against each other as John manages to get the key in the lock and Sherlock shoves open the door. They cross the threshold in a lip lock, hands scrambling underneath shirts. There is the _tink_ of keys smacking against the tile floor in the kitchen and a grunt from one man as he pulls the shirt off of the other one, their lips parting long enough to do so.

The two of them travel backwards towards the bedroom until John pushes Sherlock against the bed, sweeping his long legs out from underneath him. He lands on the mattress with an “oof” and John pounces, his hands round either side of Sherlock’s face, holding him in place while he frenches him within an inch of his life. Sherlock arches his back and wraps his legs around John’s hips, grinding their erections between their trousers with another deep growl that seems to resonate around the room.

John’s hands are busy undoing the godawful button on Sherlock’s trousers; Sherlock already has John’s open and is sneaking one spidery hand between John’s skin and the waistband of his pants. John growls back and grabs Sherlock’s hand, shoving it flat against the mattress. He moves back and stares into his lover’s face, thinking Sherlock a beautifully ethereal creature made of porcelain skin, magenta kiss-swollen lips and deep sea green eyes that possess a magic all on their own.

Of course as John is thinking this, he’s also yanking the lighter from Sherlock’s trouser pocket that he hid there when he removed the candle from Evie’s birthday cake. Never mind that he does not want to give Sherlock any ideas, it is also digging into his hips. Sherlock gives another one of those little grunts that replace words in times like this and John launches the little plastic device across the room. With the same motion, he manages to completely strip Sherlock of his trousers. As he pulls them down and off of the long, lean muscled legs, he uses the palm of his hand to brush down the back of Sherlock’s things and calves, the other hand joining on the other leg once Sherlock is bare. Sherlock pushes himself up onto his own hands so that he can watch while John licks a long stripe from Sherlock’s knees, over his thighs and finally settling with a soft, teasing kiss on the head of Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock moans and drops to the mattress, shaking them both.

John grins with a look in his cerulean eyes that would match a wolf staring down an elk. Sherlock’s purple button-down shirt is open to reveal his bare chest that is sparsely populated with fine, dark hairs. Sherlock’s long fingers are now spread over the back of John’s head, not quite forcing the other man down but holding him still as he teasing Sherlock’s cock with his tongue. John opens his mouth and deep-throats his lover with a small sigh and Sherlock’s hips jerk forward on their own. He closes his mouth until his teeth just barely brush the sensitive underside before he raises up a bit more in order to set a rhythm of bob-and-suckle. With one hand he rolls Sherlock’s balls upward, feeling them tighten with the pleasure rocking through his body.

Sherlock whines, pants, groans, grunts and moans and John loves every single second of it. When he finally comes, he opens his mouth and there is nothing but John’s name escaping on the tail end of another one of those long, low growls. John milks Sherlock through the rest of his climax, hands underneath Sherlock’s buttocks, kneading his fingers against the soft skin of those wonderful muscles. John finally pulls off and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. He drops his jeans to the floor and scoots up the bed so that he is lying next to his lover.

Sherlock opens his eyes when John begins to massage his chest. He lays his hands over John’s and John can feel the thrumming of the heart underneath their fingers. He leans over and places a kiss against it. Sherlock folds him into an embrace and then flips so that he is now lying over John with his face pressed against the place where John’s neck meets his shoulder. He makes sharp little bites, followed by a smooth, wet lick all the way down John’s neck and chest; happily following the golden happy trail down to John’s straining erection.

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to John’s face as he grins and engulfs the head of John’s cock between his red lips. For an instant, John cannot decide which is more erotic: the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth or the most beautiful flush on his cheeks that accent the lust blown green eyes. Sherlock bobs his head and uses the tongue that can fillet, frighten or fatigue John in so many other ways to bring him up to the edge and then he is spilling over it, Sherlock’s fingers brushing the soft spot just behind his balls. John doesn’t pray, scream or growl when his orgasm hits him like a ton of bricks thrown from the top of a train car: instead he grunts and shouts Sherlock’s name as he comes.

Sherlock proceeds to complete suck John dry and then raises up, his back in a perfect, protective arch over his lover. John arches in the opposite direction until their lips meet, completing the circle. They wind down from their climaxes with their arms wrapped around each other, Sherlock’s head on John’s shoulder. As they share slowing heartbeats, one man whispers to the other “I love you” and the other returns the sentiment as they slip into blissful post-coital slumber; bodies tight against one another like wolf pups safe and warm in their den.  


End file.
